


The Choices

by elim_garak



Series: The Choices [1]
Category: Homeland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2018-12-30 19:09:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 87,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12115287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elim_garak/pseuds/elim_garak
Summary: Five years after the events of season 6 finale, Carrie seems to have it all - new life, new home, Franny happily living with her, new friends. But, some years ago, she made a choice. And now, the horrific secret she has been keeping and the double life she has led, are threatening to claim all she holds dear.CHAPTER 21 IS NEW AND IT'S THE FIRST ALTERNATIVE ENDINGFOR YOUR ENTERTAINMENT.





	1. That Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [a blueberry moon (Violiko)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Violiko/gifts), [Gnomecat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gnomecat/gifts), [NikitaSunshine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NikitaSunshine/gifts).



"Got your lunch?" Carrie held the passenger door open with one hand, waiting for Franny to climb out of the car, and searching for her lunch box with another. "Here you go," she finally fished it from somewhere under the back seat and pushed it into Franny's half open school bag. A smile touched her lips as she looked up into her daughter's half-closed eyes. She cupped girl's porcelain face in her palms and laughed, "No more late-night picnics on the carpet for you…"

"Mooooommmm! I'm _fine_!" Franny protested and threw one of the bag straps on her shoulder.

"Sure… sure…" with a surrendering gesture Carrie pulled her in for a nose on nose rub. She looked deep into her baby's bright blue eyes and pressed her brow to the girl's. "Besides, I had A LOT of fun."

Franny smiled and threw her arms around her mother's neck. "Me too."

Carrie turned her head to the side to bury her face in thick auburn locks and took a deep breath. Just a little longer, she thought, as she did every day, as she did every time. Just a little longer. She was safe. She was happy. Franny was too. Been for a long while now. And yet the need to always make it right, to always say it out loud, to always hug a little longer… that need never went away. You never know, she told herself over and over as she fell asleep every night, as she kissed her baby girl goodnight, you never know if it's the last chance you get to be there, to say it, to touch her. You never know. And regret is a never-forgiving dull blade in your heart. And it makes you bleed slowly. So slowly, that, even after five years, you can still taste it in the back of your throat. Regret is a black hole and she had been living on its event horizon for too long.

"Mom, can I come tonight? With you and uncle Max?" asked Franny in a sweet innocent careless tone, as she pulled away and was now inches from Carrie's face. "To the memorial?" she added, as if explanation was needed.

Painful twitch jerked Carrie's chin. Her eyes welled up and she took a deep breath, holding back tears. She started to say something in return but no words came out. She swallowed hard, took a deep breath and pulled Franny into her arms again.

"I'm sorry, mom. I'm sorry…" started Franny, but Carrie stopped her.

"It's ok, baby. You didn't do anything wrong," She took Franny's face in her palms again and smiled as bravely and calmly as she could manage. Her voice was now steady and reassuring. "I think it's ok. If you want to. I mean, of course, it's ok. I think Peter would have loved it very-very-VERY much."

"Yes. He would. I know he would," Franny nodded several times in a very convincing manner.

"Alright, then," Carrie sat up and put her left hand on a wheel. "I'll see you after school, bug," she winked and leaned in to close the passenger door.

"Mom?" Franny, who already started towards the entrance to the school, turned around and ran back to the car, holding the door. She climbed back in her seat and turned to her mother.

"What is it, sweetie?" Carrie softly put a hand on her arm.

"Can I tell you something… about Peter… and you won't be upset? Promise you won't be upset?"

"Oh baby…" Carry smiled and strokeג her daughter's hair. "You can tell me ANYTHING! What is it?"

"When Miss Christine asked me if I was afraid… You know…" she looked down at her hands, nervously wrinkling the folds of her school uniform skirt, "when I was in the bathroom with Latisha. And Peter was outside. And people were yelling and sirens outside… and I WAS afraid... and…"

"Oh, sweetie, I know…" interrupted Carrie, trying to pull her into a hug, but Franny moved away.

"No, mom, it's just… She asked if I thought I was gonna die," she said in such low voice that it was barely a whisper. She looked away and stared for a second before looking up at her mother's face. "And I said that yes, I was. But I wasn't. I mean I was. But… I wasn't afraid of Peter. I was afraid that he would die, because there were so many people outside yelling and all. And I thought if he died, I would die too. Because he couldn't protect me if he died," her crystal blue eyes glistened with tears now and she allowed Carrie to wrap her arms around her. "He asked me if I knew I was safe with him. And I never told him. I never said anything," she was sobbing now.

"Shhhhhhhh…. Shhhhh…" Carrie rocked her from side to side and whispered into her ear. "Oh, my dear, he knew. Of course, Peter knew. You were his friend. Friends know things like that. Oh, my sweetheart… is that it?" she lifted her daughter's wet face and kissed the tears on her cheeks and temples. "Is that why you want to go today? Do you feel you made Peter sad?"

"A little…" Franny nodded and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Oh, my baby… I am so sorry," Carrie traced the tips of her fingers across Franny's cheekbone and tucked rogue hairlock behind her little ear. "I should have talked to you about it a long time ago. You know you can talk to me about Peter any time, right? Or anything that upsets you?"

"I thought talking about Peter made you sad," murmured Franny, looking away. "It always did. It makes you cry."

 _Jesus. Oh, dear god_ , thought Carrie, fighting her tears back, as she pressed her lips to the top of Franny's head. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It wasn't before she was absolutely sure that she was in control of her voice, that she pulled away and looked into her daughter's eyes.

"Of course, it does, baby," she smiled sadly. "Peter was my friend too. And I miss him very much. But I am also very proud that I got to have such a good friend. Even for such a short time. And I am always-always glad to talk to you about Peter, alright? And if it makes us sad, it's ok, too. Because loosing friends is sad. So, promise me you will always talk to me about Peter when you feel like it?"

Franny nodded with a little hint of a smile. "I promise."

"Ok then," Carrie pulled out a tissue paper from a bag on her dashboard and wiped Franny's eyes and face. "Off to school with you now. I will see you real soon, ok?"

She watched Franny sprint away towards a group of chattering and giggling classmates. She wanted to stay here a little longer, lost in this moment of serene tenderness. But then, she couldn't afford to. Carrie swallowed hard and adjusted her rear-view mirror. As she was pulling out of the drop spot, she opened a window and drew a deep breath. She was almost there. After three years of work, she was about to close that chapter once and for all. She didn't give much thought as to what they would do next. They would probably go away. Move as far from here as possible. And start anew. And she would never look back. And maybe, just maybe, she would finally be free.


	2. Her Past Life Was Long Gone

The air, flowing through the open window was cool with a hint of chill. But the sun was high in the sky and it spilled gallons of yellow light on the school building, pavement, grass and trees. Everything around her was so full of life. Life, that went on. Days flew by, then months and years. She noticed how cold and shaky were her hands. She wished she could say _it was this day._ But it was every day.

Her past life was long gone.

She had new friends and she kept in touch with some old ones. In the end, she thought she did it. She got out. For good. She kept herself busy and she made herself happy. Her dreams got better with time. She stopped seeing the exit from the parking garage of New York hotel and waking up screaming, as she felt the jolt of dozens of bullets hiting the armored SUV. She stopped seeing him, pale and bloody, his head fallen to the side, his eyes closed forever. His lifeless face, finally looking so peaceful. So goddamned peaceful. She stopped dreaming that she was running through Berlin metro tunnel, her flashlight lost, creeping darkness around. She never seemed to remember how she got there, but she would always know what she was looking for. She would wake up still calling his name. Soaked with sweat. Paralyzed with terror.

Months went by, but tears didn’t come. She felt that if she started crying, _really crying,_ she would never be able to stop. Ever. Because, how many tears was he worth exactly? How many tears would be enough to mourn that life?

Her past life was long gone.

Two years passed and her dreams changed. Breathing was easier. Getting out of bed in the morning made more sense. And smiling became less of a challenge. And now (and it had been for some time now) she dreamt him walking up to her. In a supermarket, in a parking lot, at work, in a park… All of a sudden, she would see him walk towards her - his back straight, his face shaven, his hair short, his left leg and arm undamaged. And he would smile. And she wouldn’t be surprised. Because, for some reason, in that dream he was never gone. She would wake up from this dream and stay still for a while. Holding on to the feeling of blissful escape from regret and emptiness, which shadowed her days. She never remembered what else happened in the dream. Just the image of him walking towards her. And for a tiny moment, just before the reality would assert itself as she’d fully wake up, on mornings like this, she would feel truly, incandescently, breathtakingly happy.

But her past life was long gone.

As an analyst, as case officer, as station chief, she always had to answer to someone. Not anymore. Not since one day, when Franny was at a sleepover, she took out the key for the little room upstairs, unlocked the door and stepped in. The white board was clean. On the little corner table there was a box with colored strings, some scotch tape and pins. She tore in a piece from the scotch tape and held a photograph to the top of the board. It was an old one. Not the best one, too. But she didn’t care. She attached the photograph in the middle of the board at the very top and stepped back.

_“All right,” she said, placing her hands on her hips and stretching her elbows behind her back, “I really need you to turn off that ‘light-on-the-headlands- beacon’ thing of yours for a while, Quinn. I’ll be heading for some rocks now. And I need you to let me. “_

She remembered now, how in that moment something changed inside her. And she knew it changed forever. Just like that, the dull pain in her chest was gone completely. Her mind became cold and rational. And she could almost literally see all that was tender and fragile about her memories of him dissolving into the past. If there was an actual threshold, separating the light from the darkness, that moment was when she stepped over it. And she never looked back. A part of her welcomed the darkness and felt almost at home. In the gloom of her darkest thoughts she felt his presence. As if, unescapably, she was always meant to follow him there. She remembered _knowing_ that this quest would claim her life. Such as it was, anyway. She never expected to find closure and move on. She knew how it would end. All she wanted (needed, really) was to rain hell on the heads of people responsible.

Her therapist (what a disaster THAT idea was) told her once, that, as hard as it was to believe, eventually and inevitably, she WILL get past the pain and she will find comfort in her love for Franny. That grieving was a storm, that people had to wait out. _Right,_ she remembered thinking, _because I am SOOO good at waiting out the storm._

But she did try. For two years she lived the _moto-fucking-shit_ of ‘taking one day at a time’ and ‘concentrating on everyday tasks’ and ‘spending more time outside’ and ‘limiting the times she was alone with her thoughts’. She might had not been a super-mom to Franny, but she never gave up on trying. And on that front, she really did ok. Well, maybe ‘ok’ for someone who clearly had no business becoming a mother in the first place.

Was she thinking about Franny, standing in front of her strategy board and swearing to avenge his death? Carrie knew the answer was simply – no. She had tried for two years. And, boy, had she failed. That life had to go. If they ever had any chance for some normality, if there was even a glimmer of happiness for her little dysfunctional family, she had to shed the last nine years and bury the remains. She couldn’t bring him back, true. But she _could_ and she _would_ make this right. Well ‘right’ might not had been the proper word for what she was doing. On the other hand, what was _ever_ right about the world they both lived in? It took some time, but she finally realized, that she wasn’t grieving. She didn’t go through denial or bargaining stages. She was being consumed, eaten alive, by guilt. All things unsaid, all actions not taken, all chances missed… they hunted her dreams and her waking hours. Until her guilt turned into rage. Her pain burst into hatred, white and hot, and it burned a hole where her heart had been.

It took her over a year of relentless work and sleepless nights. No agency resources, no team, no friends. She would be damned if she risked one more life. She had to do this one on her own. She ran her own investigations and installed her own surveillance equipment. She traveled all over the world on her own time, carefully planning her missions to coincide with her work trips. The white board became a story. The story developed characters. The characters got names. Locations. Pictures. She was thorough, as never before. And she didn’t care if it took ten more years or twenty.

When it was time to move forward, she didn’t hesitate. She slept well the night before. She woke up in the morning and drove Franny to school. She made plans for her to be picked up by Max, as she did every time when she had to travel for work. She got on a flight to Milano and slept through it. When she stepped behind her first target in a dimly lit restaurant bathroom and took a Glock with a silencer out of her purse, she didn’t feel anything. He seemed genuinely surprised and caught off guard for a trained operative. His eyes widened slightly, when, zipping his pants, he turned around to find a beautiful woman in short cocktail dress standing behind him. Carrie raised the gun to his forehead and fired. He went down like a deflated bag. She stepped over him, opened the door, placed an ‘out of order’ sign on the doorknob, and walked away. She remembered wondering if that was what Quinn felt, crossing off names on a kill list. Because she felt nothing. Her walk was steady, her smile genuine, as she rejoined her date at their dinner table. “ _Desert?” she asked, placing her hand on his arm._ One down. Sixteen to go.

The next day she was back home. One of the characters in her story had been written off. She crossed over his picture with a red marker, but left it on the board. She raised her eyes to Quinn’s picture on top of the board and felt a wave of nausea squeeze her stomach. He would have hated this. He would have hated _her._ He would have dreaded the person she had become. But then again, he wasn’t too fund of the person she was before, either. And she was, as always, too late to change his mind. _I have a friend,_ she recalled her conversation with Otto, _Peter Quinn. I didn’t take care of him. Not like I should have. Not like he took care of me._ Well, she was now. She looked at Quinn’s face again and raised her hand, barely touching the tips of her fingers to the paper.

Her past life was long gone. And so were so many things that she once held dear. The darkness had her now.

Carrie parked two blocks from her office and checked her watch. She had a little over 5 hours. It seemed symbolic that the last one would be dealt with on this day. She didn’t plan for it. But it gave her a great deal of satisfaction to think about it. This one wasn’t even a challenge to get close to. She already made contact and set up a meet. He agreed immediately. He had known her for years. The others were taken out assassin style: she’d get in, deliver the blow and walk away. If anyone was trying to make a connection between their deaths, it would lead nowhere. But this one was different. She _will_ look him in the eye and he _will_ know what he is dying for.

A phone ring startled her into a violent jerk. “Jesus…” she muttered and swiped the answering button across the screen. “Hey, Max. I was just about to call you.”

The voice, coming from her Bluetooth speaker was more than skeptical.

“Sure, let’s go with that theory. Are you coming in today? We got a call from Meyer’s Pharma. They sound interested in drafting preliminary contract.”

“That’s fantastic. Thanks for handling it, Max. I owe you, really.”

“You do. Big time. So, you on your way?”

“Not yet. Need to pick up some stuff from Jerry and meet with Jenkins&Porter in about an hour. I’ll pick some lunch and we’ll talk when I get there.”

“Sounds like a plan. How’s Franny?”

“Just dropped her off at school. And Max… if you _ever_ give her ideas like the carpet picnic again, I will make you bleed. Slowly. I barely woke her up this morning.”

“I never agreed to do it on a school night. That one is on _you,_ Carrie.”

“You have a point,” Carrie laughed, “Listen. Franny wants to join us tonight. Do you think we can meet somewhere less…” she was searching for the right word.

“Boozy?” Max suggested.

“Well yeah. Can you think of some place and let everyone know?”

“I’ll take care of the logistics. Don’t worry. I have an idea.”

“You’re the best. See you at noon.”

“Hey, you still want me to have a look at Franny’s computer?”

Carrie raised her eyebrow, “Didn’t you fix it already?”

“Mmmmm no. Was gonna do it tomorrow.”

“Well, she said it’s working fine again. So, I guess there’s no need.”

“Have you been cheating on me with another handy man, Carrie? First your fridge gets mysteriously better, then your backyard camera, then there was your front door lamp, now Franny’s computer. All just fixed themselves?”

Carrie scoffed and pulled up her shoulders, “What do you want me to tell you? I guess they just glitched. But hey, my garbage disposal unit is shorting again. You’re welcome to it, _handy man._ ”

She heard Max laughing, “I’ll fix it tomorrow. Ok. Give me a call when you’re on your way to the office. I’ll have Frank draft the contract for Meyer’s.”

“Deal. See you soon, Max,” Carrie pushed the end call button and removed the phone from the dashboard cradle.

She walked several blocks down the street. The silver Toyota was parked exactly where her contact said it would be. She passed next to it, without stopping, and pushed the remote unlock button twice. She heard a click of doors being unlocked and locked again. She was all set.


	3. The Mission

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saul Berenson watches his life's work being torn apart by an unknown assassin, taking out people deep within his operation scope. He has to risk it all by bringing his only asset back to the American soil in one desperate attempt to salvage the operation. Little do they both know, that...

Saul Berenson left the building and turned into a park. He had been pacing nervously all afternoon and it was helping no one. He considered picking up the phone and contacting the man in the field several times, but thought better of it. Five years of planning were about to go down the drain and that wouldn't even be the worst of it. Contacts blown, assets killed, retaliation under way… he could name a few more in the long list of repercussions a clusterfuck like this would cause.

They lost four targets and two newly recruited assets over the past year and a half. And, if his contact was correct, it was just a tip of an iceberg. Someone had been working against them, taking out people deep inside their operation scope. It took them awhile to connect the dots and realize those were not random killings. Someone was systematically taking out those people. And, although, a connection between them was not clear to him, he knew better than to think it wasn't there. In fact, he spent the good part of the last year trying to establish that connection, hoping it would help them identify an uninvited player, whose brutal game had threatened to compromise the biggest operation of his and Adal's career. Whether that person (or  _persons_ ) knew and were sabotaging their efforts intentionally, or was there a different play in place, it had to stop and soon.

The last thing he wanted (and that being the last thing was a  _huge_  underestimation), was to risk his best operative by bringing him back to the States. There were many reasons for that, the main one being that the guy (natively unstable to begin with) had a tendency to be severely destabilized, while in close proximity to certain… distractions,  _let's call it 'distractions'_. And God knew, that any distractions at this stage could mean the difference between achieving the goal they set over five years ago, and a disaster of unconceivable proportions. But they have trailed some loose ends back to their own back yard, and there was no ignoring the fact, that their problem either originated or, at the very least, had extensive operational base in the United States.

So, three weeks ago, with a heavy heart, he gave the order. The same order he had been dreading for five years. His asset flew in on an uncharted private jet. He handed him a burner phone and pocketed his old one.

_"Minimal contact," he said, as they walked to a rental car, both silent most of the way. "And…" he put a hand on man's broad shoulder, "welcome home."_

To cut the long story short – they found nothing. Not even a movie stamp (seeing how their latest casualty had been taken out in a movie theatre garage with a car bomb). The amazing Houdini left virtually no trace. And there was still no feasible connection between assassination. And, like all intelligence officers, that bothered Saul more than anything at this point. That, which he could not understand. He was missing something. His mind took him back to Carrie Mathison's apartment about 10 years back.  _"Something happened to him here. Big loss," she said, referring to a period of almost no activity on Abu Nazeer's timeline._ He wondered what made him think of that day over and over again. Maybe, because when something doesn't make sense logically, you have to look for a deeper, more emotional connection. Like 'big loss'. But whose loss? And a loss of whom? Saul felt like he was falling deeper and deeper into Rabbit's Hole.

They had very little to go on. But, luckily, they had it on good authority, that the very people in the center of their operation (ultimately better equipped and with larger resources), had been looking for the same Houdini. After all it was  _their_  people being taken out all over the world. As much as Saul would have liked to have the motherfucker mastermind in 'a room' for some chat, the importance of stopping him from ruining five years of work tramped all at this point. So, ultimately, the decision was made and they leaked. Since the information they needed to get across had little value to anyone but the interested party, they had to leak it as a part of a bundle. Along with some more valuable information, which did cost them. Nothing they couldn't handle. But nevertheless. It was done by an actual hacker. Who was now, understandably, in jail. Along with a guy responsible for the data security in one of their local stations in the Middle East. It took less than an hour from the moment the data appeared on WikiLeaks and the first report from their source. While the world was busy discussing the atrocities of CIA operations on American soil and legal repercussions of it, the  _real_  reason for the leaked files was fast at work in tracking down their elusive triggerman.

Saul reached the fountain and took out the burner phone. It rang once and was picked up.

"Nothing yet," he heard a clear low voice on the other side of the line.

"Damn it," Saul looked up and drew a long breath. "We are out of time."

"Not yet. They are getting close. The info was good. It seems they have enough to go on now."

Saul sat down at the edge of the fountain and felt the water seep through his pants. He was too distracted to care.

"You should have let me handle this," he heard the voice on the phone. "We wouldn't be in this mess."

"I shouldn't have asked you come here  _at all_. Let alone run around gathering intel. Besides, this is too risky for us to get involved in. We're not even supposed to  _know_  about the assassinations. If we start lurking around and figuring out who's behind them, our asset is blown. It's absolutely vital that they believe it's their mess and deal with the motherfucker on their own. Plus, it will give our guy an extra edge, figuring this out."

The man on the other side of the line considered his words.

"Right," he said finally.

 _Fucking mercenaries,_ thought Saul. In the nine years that he had known the man, he barely heard him make a statement consisting of more than three short sentences at a time.

"I need you out of the country by the end of the week. If we don't close it by then, we wrap it up and tie the ends."

"Right," the man repeated with the same detached voice.

Saul heard a sound of something metallic hitting a hard surface.

"Where are you?" he asked immediately, tensing up.

The man he was talking to, sat on a kitchen floor in Brooklyn apartment, in front of an open cabinet doors under the sink, surrounded by tools and parts, and holding a schematic for the garbage disposal in his left hand.

"Around," he answered.  _Plumbing school_ , he wanted to add, but thought better of it.

Saul exhaled loudly and took off his glasses. He rubbed his eyes and kept them closed.

"I warned you not to make contact. You  _promised._ "

The man got up from the floor and dusted his pants. He walked up to a refrigerator and stood there for a long moment, looking at the pictures under colorful magnets. His favorite was the one with the color balloons. He couldn't help smiling every time he looked at it. He wished he could keep it. He even took a picture of it with his phone once. But deleted the moment he got into his car. He had taken his own pictures too, watching from a safe distance. And those, too, would be gone by the end of the same day. Couldn't risk it. Couldn't risk  _them._

He was still holding the phone to his ear, just standing there and moving his eyes from one photo to another.

"I didn't," he replied finally. Because it was true.

Saul dropped his head and shook it from side to side, "You made me promise I'd look after her. And I did. I made sure she didn't get back in. Not even when she wanted. I needed her help and I never reached out. I stayed close all these years to make sure she kept out of trouble. Like you asked. So, don't you dare go and fuck this up now. She is happy. And she worked very hard to get there. You have  _no right_ , do you hear me?  _No right!_ "

The man looked at the pictures again. She  _did_ look happy. They both did.

"I was just fixing the fucking garbage disposal," he answered after a long pause, not sure if he was talking to Saul or himself.

"I see. And the front door lamp? And the backyard camera? Do you think Carri Mathison is an idiot?"

The man considered the question for a second. His pale blue eyes darkened with deep concern. He was never the one for letting go. Five years or three decades.

"No, I don't think she is an idiot," he said after a long pause. "Which is why I'm sure she wouldn't figure a dead man fixed her f-fucking sink."

Peter Quinn pushed the end call button, put the burner in his back pocket, gathered his tools and turned on the garbage disposal. It was purring like a kitten. He turned it off, flicked the light switch, walked out the back yard and reset the looping image on both security cameras.

Saul was right. He should never had come there. And he swore to himself, he never would again.


	4. The Aftermath - Five Years Earlier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter Quinn is being rushed away from the shooting site, right after the attempt on Kean's life.

The first time Peter woke up was when he felt a violent jolt. Something, on which he seemed to be carried, slammed loudly against another hard surface. The siren went off, and the ambulance (he figured as much) started moving. He tried to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt like they were filled with led. And, when he finally managed to widen them a tiny crack, it was all a blur. He tried to focus, but people were moving too fast. They were doing something to him. Touching him. He felt pain everywhere.  _Would they STOP poking already?_

"Hey, I think he opened his eyes," he heard woman's voice. A face came into his view. Did she have blue eyes? All he could make out was colors. And a bright light. Right into his eyes with a flashlight.  _What the fff…_  "Sir, can you hear me? Can you say your name?"

He started saying  _Peter Quinn_ , but he couldn't hear his own voice. He felt his lips moving, but not really the way he wanted them too. There was a metallic taste in his mouth and it made him gag repeatedly. Someone forced opened his eyes one after another. The flash light again.  _Do these people have no shame?_

"Pupils equal and reactive to light," he heard the same voice speak very close to his face. "Sir," he felt a soft slap on his cheek, "Sir, can you open your eyes again?"

Peter gave it a try, but his muscles didn't work. He was very cold. Shivers made his pain worse. And it was very hard to breath. He felt sharp pain in his left chest every time he would draw in air. And after each breath, he had this violent urge to take another one. There was not enough air. There was something on his face. It smelled like new plastic. He raised his hand and tried to remove it.

"Wow-wow-wow…" he heard in response, and the plastic thing was back on his nose. "You need the oxygen, sir. Don't take the mask off. Jake, what's our eta? We might need to tube him. The sats are down to 85 with rebreather."

Sirens. Loud voices outside. No air. There was not enough air. He was choking and he couldn't take enough air in. He felt the muscles tighten around his throat and around his chest. He never thought breathing took so many muscles. He tried very hard, but it wasn't enough. One breath led to another, and another, and another… and it wasn't enough. He had to get up. To sit down. To get out. He needed more air.

"Trachea shift to the right. BP is down to 75 palp. Sats are 68 and dropping. It's tension pneumo. Get me an IV set," Peter heard a man's voice, rising above the equipment noice. Then he felt a sharp pain in his left chest and a loud hissing. He drew in a deep breath. "Damn, he's bleeding everywhere. Sats are going up... 78… 81… I think it's a flail chest. What a mess. Get me number 8 tube and some tape."

Peter felt someone's hands on his face. "Sir, I am going to put a tube in, to help you breath."

He managed to open his eyes a tiny crack again. "Carrie," he tried to say, but no voice came out. His throat felt like it was stuck in a middle of steel press. The hissing of the oxygen mask made his voice inaudible. "Carrie," he repeated, when the mask was removed and he saw a man, right above him, leaning over his face from behind, "Is Carrie Mathison ok?"

"Please try not to talk, sir."

Last things he remembered was a sharp pain in his jaws, as someone thrusted the back of his cheek bones forward, and a cold sensation of metallic blade in his mouth. Then it was back into darkness again.

The second time he regained consciousness, he was outside. The sky above him was dark and he could make out some stars. It was very cold and he was covered with layers of blankets. There was a loud noise. Not sirens or people. It was mechanical, rhythmical and very- _very_ loud.  _Helicopter pad_ , he figured. His breathing was easier, but it felt weird. Every time he took a breath, he felt air being pushed into his chest. It made him want to cough, but, as he did, something started beeping loudly next to his ear. He tried to move his head to the side to see what it was, but his neck was firmly strapped into cervical collar. There was a machine to the right side of his head. It made clicking sounds and with each of them he felt air pushed into his chest.  _Portable ventilator_ , he guessed,  _Fuck me._

People around him were basically screaming at each other, to make their voices rise above the noise of the helicopter blades.

"He needs surgery. He is not stable for transfer," yelled one of them. He was dressed in green scrubs and a heavy coat on top of them. Probably an ER doc.

The man he was talking to was tall and slender and wore merely a suit. In this cold. Peter would have had recognized him anywhere.

"He will have surgery," Adal yelled back. "But not here. We're moving him now."

"You will be releasing him AMA. And that's not just against medical advice. You're really risking him not making it to… wherever you're taking him," the doctor insisted, gesturing to something behind the gurney. "He has three chest drains that are filling fast. He needs blood transfusions and immediate surgery."

"He will get both," Adal put a reassuring hand on doctor's shoulder. "This is Chris Jason," he pointed to another man in a dark suit, standing nearby. "He will come with you and take care of the forms. We gotta go."

Peter couldn't make out the rest of the conversation. The helicopter was too loud. He saw the doctor leaving with a man called Chris Jason. Then his gurney started moving.

"Wait," he started saying, but his throat hurt from the effort and no sound came out again.

Dar Adal came closer now and saw that his eyes were open.

"You can't talk, Peter. You got a tube in your throat."

He started giving instruction to the transport team, but Peter grabbed his arm with his right hand and pulled him closer.

"Carrie," he moved his lips in a silent plea. "Is Carrie ok?"

"Peter, I can't hear you. And we really have to move."

Peter squeezed his hand so hard, it made him slightly bend his knees and scream out. Peter's hand opened his palm and Adal felt his finger scratching something on his skin. He looked down. Half a circle. Another half a circle. Over and over again. He looked at Peter's face again and saw him trying to raise his head, his blue eyes opened wide, demanding answers, his lips silently moving around the breathing tube. He leaned closer. His ear was almost touching Peter's mouth. He didn't hear a sound, but he could make out distinct clicking of two letters.

"C...r… C…r…"

"Carrie? Are you asking if Carrie is ok?" he screamed over the helicopter noise.

Peter squeezed his eyes, saying  _yes_.

"For God's sake, Peter!" Adal angrily shook his hand free. His face still mere inches from Quinn's. "Yes, she is fine. Kean is fine. They are  _all_  fine," he turned to the medic. "Give him a sedative already, will you?"

Peter blinked several times and looked straight ahead. His eyes tearing from pain. His head dropped back to the gurney.

Dar firmly grabbed his face and leaned closer.

"You know what?" he hissed through clenched teeth. "I wish she wasn't. For once, I wish she didn't make it out. I have been scraping bits and pieces of you from more continents than most people get to visit in their life time. All in the name of Carrie-Fucking-Mathison and her missions. Every time you just have to rush head first into another mess of hers."

He stopped talking, but remained close. His hand on Peter's face. His eyes dark with genuine anger.

Peter felt dizzy. The sedative was starting to take effect. His eyelids grew heavy, but he forced them open. He raised his head again, giving it the last of the strength he had, looked deep into Adal's eyes and made sure his lips were easy to read this time. "FUCK YOU," he mouthed, and it all went dark again.


	5. The Aftermath - Four and a Half Years Earlier

Peter was sitting in his therapist’s office. _Again_. It was mandatory. Part of his rehabilitation program. Whatever good _that_ would do. He had to come twice a week. And no amount of being rude with his answers or just sitting there for the whole hour, saying nothing, seemed to be getting him out of it. The room was painted pale green. Everything else was in carefully chosen tints of pastel pink and orange and… well, pastel everything. It was supposed to make you feel calm _. Can’t get much calmer, then when you feel dead inside_ , he thought often. Hell, inside? Wasn’t he supposed to be dead, period?

“Last time we met, you were telling me about your dreams,” he heard the woman say. She sat right across from him, her legs crossed, slightly leaning forward, a touch of smile, hands clasped together and resting on her knees.

“I w-wasn’t. You were g-guessing. I said nothing,” Peter replied, taking his eyes from oil paint pictures on the wall and eyeing her for a moment.

The truth was he felt guilty. Doctor Lauren Lewis had been nothing but patient with him. She took his abuse and obnoxiousness with a bravery of a true professional. She was kind and observant. And her passion for helping broken toys like him and other vets here was something he found very admirable. And he knew she could read far deeper into him, than he dared allow. There was this one time, when he came to her house on the compound. Late at night, after being woken up by yet another night terror, he went running and, when that didn’t help (as it rarely did), he started pounding on her front door. He was screaming and cursing, begging to be let in. When he, finally, stopped and realized what he was doing, he thought – that was that. He could see in his mind’s eye how the security would chase him and knock him down. How he would spend yet another week grounded in his quarters. Instead, the door opened.

_“Come on in,” she said, simply, without asking what the hell he was thinking, barging into her home at this hour. She just stood there in her bathroom robe, barely covering her pajamas, holding the door open for him._

_Peter walked in and stumbled to the sofa. He fell into it hard and felt his body collapse into an abyss of parasympathetic backlash. Lauren closed the door, checking that the commotion he had caused didn’t attract any attention. Then she filled a kettle with water and put it on a stove. When she sat next to him on the sofa, she said nothing. No questions about what happened, no remarks about his rude behavior. She waited in silence, her hand on his arm._

_He wanted to tell her everything. From as far in the past as he could remember. Because he knew, if he did, she would help him. But he couldn’t. No matter how high her security clearance was and how protected their conversations were by the doctor/patient confidentiality, he couldn’t just start spilling the tail of his life without divulging something he wasn’t supposed to._

_“I am so sorry…” he said finally, leaning forward, his elbows wedging into his knees, his head falling into his palms. “I am so sorry…” and then it happened. He was crying. For the first time in many-many years. And he didn’t stop for the longest time._

_“I know,” she whispered, just sitting there, her hand on his shoulder. Wondering, how bad it must had been. And how little she could do to make it better._

“Alright,” he heard Lauren’s voice, bringing him back from the memory lane, “so, how about we try that again. Do you sometimes have disturbing dreams?”

Did he? Really? Four months beforehand he was officially diagnosed with severe PTSD. And it wasn’t just the dreams. That is, not just when he was asleep. He would walk back to the main campus from the dining room and see a glimpse of a riffle barrel pointed at him from behind the bushes in the garden. As for his dreams, they were so bad, he was considering giving up sleeping altogether. He would wake up screaming and it would take him a good hour to calm down. He would leave the compound and go running in the middle of the night.

“Some,” he answered reluctantly.

“Would you like to tell me about some of them?” she asked.

“Not in particular. No.”

 _You can watch online,_ he thought, _the whole fucking world can watch my worst nightmare on YouTube._

“Ok. So how about we talk about some of the work you’re doing here instead?”

“Sure. How about that…” Peter’s face remained emotionless, as he was looking through the window to his right at some invisible point in the blue sky.

“How is it going with your speech therapist? I noticed, you have less trouble finding the right word, when you speak. However little.”

He nodded and said nothing, still staring.

“And I couldn’t help but noticing, the change in motion range of your left arm. You used it to open the door today.”

Peter slowly tore his gaze from the window and looked down on his left palm. He lifted his left arm slightly and turned his hand from side to side.

“That’s as far as it goes.”

 _Still a mutant._ He had 3 surgeries on his left leg. All three performed by a leading surgeon rehabilitative orthopedics. He had been doing intense peroneal nerve stimulations. And he still had to wear the ankle foot orthosis for the most part of the day. It was true, that he could now walk with very little limping. He ran several miles three times a week and he was increasing the distance gradually. But inside his head, he remained a caged wounded animal. A man, who once felt invincible, capable of protecting himself and others, and now needed to use one hand to put the other on a dining table.

“You know, I’ve been thinking…” Lauren shifted in her armchair and tilted her head to the side. “Obviously, for many reasons, you can’t talk to me about things that happened to you. So, I was wondering, if we could make up a story. And by ‘we’ I mean ‘you’, obviously. Seeing how this session is heading down the toilet and our time is almost up, how about I give you something to think about for the next one. For once, it might be fun to take your mind off the _other_ stuff it’s been dealing with. So, how about, you make up a story. And create a character, who will be you. And it doesn’t have to actually be who you are, which is the entire point. Different name is a given, for example, different job, different people in your life. And, as you make up the story, you find a way to tell me something true about yourself. Something, that I won’t be able to verify or find out online. Something, you would like to talk about, but you can’t. Do you think something like that might be ok for you to try?”

Peter stopped staring at the oil painting and looked straight at her. For the first time in months she saw his blue eyes light up with something resembling real, genuine interest.

“Like a cover story?” it sounded more like a statement, than a question.

She nodded, smiling. “Yep. We will pretend you’re a covert operative and I am interviewing you for a job. You need this job to complete your mission, which is to infiltrate my operation. So, you would, obviously, have a cover story. Which would be fictional, but not entirely. To make it easy to keep up with facts.”

“Sure,” Peter said. _Let’s pretend I am a covert operative._

He smiled. _Gotcha_ , she thought.

 “Great. See you Thursday then,” Lauren stood up and held the door open for him. “Now get out of here. And remember, for the cover story to hold water, you need to use real facts here and there. That’s the deal.”

_________________________________________

Two flights of stairs later Peter was in the lobby of the main compound. He considered going to the gym, but his left arm was aching since the morning, and Matt, his trainer and physiotherapist, warned him against overdoing it. He rarely listened, seeing how it wasn’t like he had better things to do being stuck here, half the world from home, on strict orders not to make contact until contacted with, but this time the pain was pretty bad. The pool then.

He was about to make a turn towards the living quarters, when he saw the receptionist, a woman of sixty or so, with immaculate taste in clothes, people and chocolate, waving him over. He liked her a lot, and, at times spent hours chatting with her. Well, mostly it was her doing the chatting and him doing the listening. But, after half a year in this place, he knew everything there was to know about her two daughters and three grandchildren, as well as their spouses, lovers and pets.

“You’re in a good mood,” Lilly greeted him with a wide smile.

“Ain’t that why you make me go to a shrink,” he smirked, taking a bite from a cube of dark chocolate she offered him, as usual.

“Lauren is a sweet kid and you better not give her any trouble.”

“I am b-behaving, don’t worry,” Peter took another piece and enjoyed the bitter sweet taste melting in his mouth.

“So, how come I didn’t see you go to one of them runs of yours today, honey? It sure is Monday.”

Peter’s mind worked fast. He swallowed the chocolate and looked down at Lilly, his eyes squinting a bit. He _did_ go for a run this morning. And Lilly was sitting right here. And they laughed for a while, before he ran off.

“Didn’t I?” he asked, warily.

“Oh… did you now? It must have slipped my mind. So many people coming around lately. Visiting,” she was still smiling, but there was something different about the way she looked at him.

 _Visiting._ Peter took some more chocolate and said nothing.

“You know,” Lilly continued, sorting her papers and seemingly going about her business, “I was driving from a village this afternoon and I noticed there is a nice opening in the woods about a mile out. I was thinking, would be nice to take the twins for a picnic there sometime. Such lovely little flowers and plenty of shadow. Absolutely marvelous little spot for a visit.”

“Oh… you mean the one down the main road?”

“That’s the one. You know it? So lovely.”

“I am sure the twins would love it, Lilly,” Peter smiled and she knew he understood by the way his eyes changed. “So, have you been back long, then?”

“Not more than half an hour, really. Brought some groceries and fresh milk.”

“And chocolate,” Peter blew her a kiss. “I think I’ll go for another run after all, you know? Been feeling stiff all day.”

“You do that, honey,” Lilly smiled and nodded, as if answering a question he never asked. “If you run past that nice opening in the woods, you will see what I mean.”

“Thanks. You have a safe drive home, Lilly,” Peter was fast out the doors and heading towards the exit from the compound.

Lilly would make a great covert operative, he thought, passing the guard and waving. Finally, someone had come for him.

______________________________________

Peter was fairly out of breath, when he reached the spot, Lilly mentioned. He passed several others and checked out the surroundings, but, from the let go, he was quite sure she was talking about this one. It was getting dark now, but the place was still breathtakingly beautiful. It was barely visible from the main road, partly hidden by several rows of tall trees, but he found it without any trouble. And, as he stepped into the opening, just like that, there he was. A man sat on a trunk of a fallen tree. He stood up the moment he saw Peter. It wasn’t Adal. And Peter was really happy it wasn’t. He crossed the distance between them, catching his breath, and they embraced. Their relationship in the past had always been very professional. Cold and distant, even. But seeing him here, half way across the world, after long months of uncertainty and loneliness, for a moment there, it really felt like coming home.

“My God, just look at you,” Saul Berenson broke the embrace and was now looking at Peter, holding him by his shoulders. He looked at his straight posture, dark hair trimmed short, his face shaven clean. Even the look in his eyes was different. “You clean up good, Peter, I give you that much.”

“Well, I had a lot of free time on my hands,” Peter gestured that he needed to sit down and lowered himself onto the tree trunk. “What the _fuck_ took you so long, Saul?” he asked defiantly, after gulping down half a water bottle. “I was starting to wonder if I should apply for Swiss citizenship and marry one of Lilly’s daughters.”

Saul sat next to him, took off his glasses, cleaned them thoroughly with a handkerchief ( _who had handkerchiefs anymore, anyway?_ ) and put them back on. His black eyes looked tired.

“There have been some… developments,” he answered vaguely, “Let’s just say I wasn’t at liberty to travel up until very recently.”

“Your pal came to visit me in a hospital in Tel-Aviv,” Peter said, after a long pause, realizing Saul was not about to elaborate any further on the topic. “Etai Luskin,” he added to clarify. “Warned me to stop stealing phones from nurses and try contacting home.”

“I had him keeping an eye on you. Since neither me nor Dar were able to.”

“Shit, Saul,” Peter scoffed, “You should have found a way. For fuck’s sake, I woke up in ICU half way across the globe, surrounded by people speaking bad English with even worse accent. And I had to stay there for two weeks, recovering from 3 major surgeries, sucking food through tubes… and no one could be bothered to drop a line. All I had was a wallet with coffee money and a broken iPhone. And by broken, I mean _shot through._ Goddamned Dar and his sense of humor.”

“So, how did you enjoy Israel?” Saul asked, ignoring his outburst.

“It’s c-crowded. And hot. Now, how about _you_ t-tell me… How did _you_ enjoy _my funeral_ and what the _fuck_ was _that_ about?”

“Actually, I didn’t go to the funeral. Only to the memorial.”

Peter let out a long puff of air and it sounded more like a muffled growl.

“I s-swear to God, Saul…”

“Ok… _Okay_ ,” Saul raised his hands, surrendering. “It was Dar’s idea. At the time, I had my doubts, but now, looking back, it was a very well-played move. We weren’t sure what went on back then. Hell, we are still digging it up. So, it seemed safer to make you disappear for good. At least for the time being. He knew we would need your help rather sooner than later. And we couldn’t risk leaving you in the States. Especially, seeing how you were in the middle of it all.”

Peter was silent for a while, taking it in.

“Who else knows?” he asked, finally.

“No one. Just the two of us,” said Saul, studying his face. He knew what the question was _really_ about. “Carrie doesn’t know.”

Peter looked straight into his eyes. It hit him there and then: she thought he was dead. And it’d been over half a year.

“I considered telling her,” Saul continued, “but it wasn’t the easiest time for her. She had just gotten regular visitations with Franny and was about to get her back for good. I didn’t want to… unsettle things even more for her.”

Peter sharply turned his head.

“Was about t-to get Franny _back_? From where?” he demanded.

“You didn’t know?” it was Saul’s turn to be surprised. “Social Services took Franny away and she was in foster care for several weeks. I was sure you knew.”

“What? Why?” Peter felt the blood in his veins turning into ice.

Saul gave him the short version, omitting the role Dar Adal had in what he considered to be the dirtiest move of his career. In the time he knew him, they did things most people would find despicable, but this was too much to stomach even for him. He never meant to talk about Carrie. But he was no fool. Time was running short and it wasn’t going to be too long before they need to start putting things in motion. So, if it meant getting Peter’s demons out of the way before talking business, so be it.

Peter stood up and turned away. He caused this. He did. He tried to imagine Franny dragged from school. Living with strangers. He imagined Carrie trying to get her back. Broken and alone. And he felt consumed with rage and guilt like never before in his life.

“Is she ok?” he asked, finally, in a deep broken voice, still not looking at Saul.

“We don’t talk much,” Saul started replying, but Peter turned around and the expression on his face made him stop half sentence. His eyes, wide open, filled with tears, his lips pressed hard, jaws clenched.

“ _Is… she… ok_?” he repeated in low growl, borrowing his eyes into Saul’s.

“She was… sad,” Saul admitted with a look of genuine concern. “She refused to speak at your memorial. But I think she is better now. It takes time.”

Peter sat down next to him and leaned forward, looking at the ground.

“Can you protect her?” he asked.

“I think so.”

“P-Promise me you can protect her. And I mean _really_ protect her. Make sure she never gets back. Make sure she lives her life away from this shit.”

Saul nodded. “I can do that.”

“Say it,” Peter demanded. “Say you promise you will protect her.”

“I promise, Peter,” Saul put a hand on his shoulder.

Peter exhaled loudly and closed his eyes.

So, that was how it ended. Badly. He died. She would mourn him and go on. Over the past several months, he was starting to have hopes again. Training relentlessly, working on getting back the man he once was, he had this dream, that one day, when, whatever this was, would blow over, and he would be allowed to go back, he would just walk up to her… in a supermarket, in a park, at work…

He stopped himself from finishing that thought. One choice was made for him. The other one, he was about to make on his own. In his heart, he said goodbye.

“So, when do we start?” he asked, turning back to Saul. And just like that, it was over.


	6. John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conclusion chapter of the aftermath story.  
> Dedicated to men and women like Peter Quinn, standing on the sidelines of history, keeping our homes safe.

It was time to go. It had been more than seven months since his meeting with Saul. Peter was told to sit tight and stick with his rehabilitation routine for now. So, he did. For the most part, because he knew he would need to be in a much better shape for what was asked of him. But also, because for the first time in his life (definitely for the first time since he woke up in a hospital in Berlin) he really wanted to.

Peter tidied up his room and looked around. That was it. He was leaving this place. There was no bag to pack. Nothing to take with him. He came here in his hospital pajamas. There was nothing here that belonged to him. But then, it wasn’t entirely true. As he raised his left arm above his head to pull down the shades on the window, he thought how much of what he was today _was_ this place. When he first came here, he was a shell of broken man. Body and soul, both. He couldn’t care less if he lived or died. And he would lash out at anyone who did. But they stuck with him, through scoffs and cursing and offensive outbursts. The men and women, who could see through his pain and self-loathing and not only embrace it as part of who he was, but make _him_ do that. He knew he was taking this place with him. Knowing that there would never come a day when he would tie his shoes with both hands and not hear Matt’s voice, telling him:   _”Just one more time. Push it… lift it all the way. Don’t you quit on me now, Quinn.”_

He picked up a sealed envelope from his desk. He considered going to the offices right now and sliding it underneath the door, but seeing how it wasn’t very late, he was afraid she would still be there. He had no trouble writing the letter. In fact, after their last session, it just came out in one go. But writing a letter was one thing, facing her, having to say goodbye, was something he couldn’t handle. She saved him. There was no lesser way of putting it. She brought him to his knees and watched him build himself up again. In the end, after years of taking the fight to the enemy all over the world, he was saved by this woman from the worst enemy he ever had – himself.

He remembered their first appointment, following his meeting with Saul. The one, where he was supposed to make up a cover story. Which he did. A story that ended up burning a hole in a shield he had been carefully building all those years. She gave him a way to let her into his world without compromising the secrets of his past.

On that day, he walked in and sat down. Before she could say anything, he handed her a piece of paper.

_“Hello, my n-name is John. For the past nineteen years I have been working as p-private investigator in one of the largest law firms in Chicago. And I think you should be really interested in hiring me as your new chief of c-cyber security.”_

_Lauren smiled and raised an eyebrow, “Is that so,_ John _?”_

_“Yes,” he nodded and pointed to a piece of paper in her hand. “This is the l-list of references, who will personally assure you of the q-quality of my work and the level of my c-commitment to the task at hand.”_

_He could see, she was taken completely off guard by the sudden change in his level of involvement._

_“When you make up cover stories, you don’t mess around, Quinn,” Lauren nodded and put the list of fictional character witnesses on her table._

_“N-not Quinn – John,” he corrected._

_“I see,” she nodded, tucked her legs underneath her and turned her full attention to him. That was going to be interesting. “So, John. What would you say is your strongest quality?”_

_“Oh…” he knew the answer to that one. “I am reliable. I am extremely reliable.”_

Over the next seven months he kept every appointment. And he had a new cover story for each one. He worked on each in between the sessions. He thought up details and made up characters, some completely fictional and some based on real life people, as he worked on his arm strength, as he worked with his speech therapist, as he took his morning runs in the forest. The more he talked, the more he felt like telling her more. Some of the stories were interconnected. In some he was a different person. But, to his astonishment and admiration, she never failed to pinpoint the ‘real’ part of his fictions. And her first question would always be straight to the point. And she had no mercy, when she would attack the issue. She would leave him beaten and bleeding, yelling and cursing, as she made him see the things, that mattered to him, for what they really were. They argued, they got angry (he wasn’t sure if she really got angry, but she sure as hell knew how to fake it), she pushed all his buttons and with every session she would find more and more of them. And he pushed back with a vengeance. But then the session would be over. And with time he started noticing, how his dreams were changing. How his world stopped being black and white and shades of grey. There was color. There was hope. And there was a lightness in his chest, he didn’t feel since he was a child.

His last appointment was just this morning. Of course, Lauren didn’t know it was the last one. And as much as he wanted to tell her, to say goodbye, he knew he wasn’t allowed to. But something did happen, today of all days, that, in a way, brought a sort of closure to John’s long story.

“John…” she said, when they were done discussing his current cover story. “May I ask you a question about something you told me some time ago?”

He felt suddenly uncomfortable, thrown out of balance, but never showed it.

“Shoot,” he answered, casually.

“You remember Caroline? The woman you were hoping to get involved with, but ended up leaving and taking a job offer overseas in one of your firm’s European branches?” when he nodded, looking down at his hands, she continued to her question. “Why do you think you did that? Why did you leave?”

“She didn’t want it. She said it.”

“Did she? Because I remember you telling me, she said she had to sort through some personal things.”

“She said _‘I am not good for you or anyone else’_ ,” he remembered those words exactly. They were burned deep into his flesh and soul. “How much clearer does it get?”

“What are  you, knew at the world??? Seriously, John. ‘Yes’ is clear. ‘No’ is clear. ‘I am not good for you or anyone else’ is basically saying ‘I am fucked up. I have no idea how to sort through everything going on in my life’. If anything, it’s as far from _clear_ as it gets.”

“Not with her. She always knows what she wants. It was just…” he was looking for the right words. Not because of his speech impairment, which was barely noticeable anymore, but because he had found the right way to put it once before. “A false glimmer.”

Lauren shook her head.

“I don’t think it was that _at all_ ,” she said in a soft voice. “I think it was just a bad timing,” as Peter was taking some time, considering it, she continued. “I think, at the time you both had been through a lot of turmoil. And she was struggling with a personal loss. Maybe she just needed more time. And, John, I think you _knew_ that on some level. Because from what you told me, you spent many years looking for clues of Caroline’s affection for you.”

“It doesn’t matter anymore, anyway,” he said, suddenly looking completely beat.

“Oh, but I think it does, because…” started Lauren, but he interrupted her.

“No, it doesn’t. Because, he truth is… what I didn’t tell you…” it was the first time in seven months he detached himself from his character and spoke about him in a third person. In that moment, he felt so much grief, he could literally see the world around him grow dark. He looked at her for a long time, before speaking again. He wanted to tell her all along. Although, a part of him wondered if she didn’t know that already. “It doesn’t matter anymore,” he said, “because John died.”

As his last words echoed through the room and through her mind, Lauren felt the time stood still. And there they were, frozen in that moment, sitting across from each other, and in the middle, there was the truth, that horrible raw truth, which made it all so clear. Lauren felt the air trapped in her lungs, refusing to let it out. There she had it. The answer. She thought they had a breakthrough seven months ago. But this? This was a whole different level of unthinkable. Like that elusive piece of a puzzle, which would make it easy to find all the ones around it, those words brought it all crashing down on her head.

She stood up and walked to the bar in the corner. Her back to him, she poured a glass of water and gulped I down. Tears filled her eyes. She blinked them away, raising her head to prevent them from streaming down her face. Lauren just stood there for several minutes.

She returned to her chair and sat on the very edge of it. She leaned forward, looking deep into his eyes.

“ _Died_ ,” she repeated in a tone, which was neither a question nor a statement.

“Yep. The whole thing: funeral, memorial, star on the fucking wall… the whooole package.”

“But… _YOU_ are John. And John is dead?”

He raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips, “You wanted a good cover story. Being dead is as good as it gets.”

“So, what you’re saying is, that all the people you knew back home…”

“Not me. John. I am, obviously, alive,” he winked at her and sank deeper into his chair. “It’s just a story, remember? Look… you asked about John and Caroline having another go at it. All I am sayin’ is – ain’t gonna happen. He died. She lived on. She was sad for a while and she got over it. That’s what people do, right? They go to a…” he motioned his hand at her, “shrink. And they work things out. And they live on.”

“That is _so…_ _harsh_!” she gave him a look, that was a mixture of pain and disappointment. “People go through _hell_ to get that. To get closure and move on. They don’t just ‘work things out’. They _work_. And it takes time. And anguish. And bad dreams. And… Do you really want that for a woman John cared for so deeply?”

 _No,_ he thought, _but in the end, she was better off._

“People die,” he muttered, averting his eyes. “It’s unfair. Sometimes it’s unjust. I don’t have to tell you that. But it happens. And other people go on living.”

Lauren stood up and grabbed the arms of her chair. She dragged it on the carpet until it was next to his. He looked surprised, but said nothing. She sat down, studying him up close now.

“I have a question for Peter now, if it’s ok,” she tilted her head to the side very slightly. He nodded in agreement. “Peter, do you hate John? Do you think John was a bad man, who didn’t deserve anything good happening to him?”

“I think he was a killer,” he replied in a surprisingly steady voice.

“Which of the questions, that I just asked, does _that_ answer exactly?”

“ _All of them._ ”

“So, in your eyes, the fact that John was killing people to keep his country safe… to keep me and my children safe… That meant that killing wasn’t what he did, but who he was?”

Peter’s eyes opened wide and he moved his face closer to hers, “A distinction without a _fucking_ difference. You think, killing people is some heroic _shit_ … You’re a _f-fucking_ idealist. Killing people is _ugly_. It’s _messy_. You can’t just say bullshit like ‘you can kill but not be a killer’. It’s fake… this bullshit! When you kill, you’re a killer. Is _all you_ are. For a government or otherwise. It kills you in… here,” he slammed a fist into his chest. “And you can never have it normal, like other people. You are always a k-killer. Always…”

Lauren didn’t budge, although him being so close and so clearly angry was every bit as intimidating as he intended for it to be.

“You’re a heartless monster, you know that?” she fired back, drilling him with her eyes.

“Didn’t I just say just _that_???”

“Yeah you did. And you are _wrong_!” she got him exactly where she needed him. Raw and angry. “You wanna know what I think about John?”

“Sure,” he waved his hand sarcastically, “tell me how he is a big hero. How his actions saved lives of Americans.”

“I think John was an _outstanding_ guy,” she hissed, not backing off. “I think he hated what he was doing. But he did it anyway, mostly because it was his duty, and, because he never knew how to do anything else in his life. I think he worked very hard not to let his killings take over his life. And I think he struggled with that _every… single… day_. I think he risked his life for his friends and for people he loved. Over… and over… and over again. And I think he was even willing to let the woman he loved believe he was dead, because he thought she was safer without him than she was with him. Feel free to stop me, when I say something that’s not true,” she dared him.  But he said nothing, just staring at her. “I think he put others’ lives and needs before his own. He was very… how did you put that… _reliable_ like that. And I think people, who knew him and loved him, miss him dearly. I know I would. In fact, I wish I would have known John. I wish I could have had a chance to tell that to him. I wish I had him as my friend. I would have told him every day how grateful I was for having someone like him in my life. Or, at the very least, I wish I could have bought him a beer. That guy, whom you hate so much, he _was_ a hero. One of those nameless people, standing on the sidelines of history. Doing horrific things to keep others safe. I wish we lived in a world where those things weren’t needed. But we are not. And it’s people like John, who stand between us and them, whoever _they_ are. And we don’t even know their names. And, while I know, John never did what he did for glory or fame, I, for once, would have liked to shake his hand. And to thank him. For shedding bits and pieces of his soul on foreign soil, providing the peace, that my children can enjoy. Never being able to talk about it. Never getting the help they need. Hating themselves for the very things they should be commemorated for. And, for the record, if you think for one second a woman like Caroline would have it easy forgetting a guy like John, after everything he did for her, and moving on, you either severely misrepresented her in your stories or you’re a _fucking moron_. And, to answer my own question about why John left Caroline and never waited for her to give him her answer, it was because he never believed he deserved to be happy or to be loved. He hated himself. And he thought everyone was better off without him. You said Caroline gave him a clear answer when she said ‘I am not good for you or for anyone else’. That’s where you’re very confused. It seemed so clear to John, because that is _exactly_ how _he_ felt.”

Peter wasn’t moving. He wasn’t blinking, still staring at her face, but not really seeing it anymore. He wasn’t breathing. _What just happened? What the fuck did just happen?_ It was as if his world just stopped spinning. And the time stood still. Everything around him was getting really blurry. Did her words just hit home? Hell, they hit the bull’s eye. He felt shot down half leap. The full weight of gravity crashing him to the ground. _What just happened?_

“You gotta breath, Quinn,” he heard her voice. The air came rushing into his lungs with a violent gust. “Better,” he felt her hand on his shoulder and saw her holding a glass of water.

Lauren sat back in her chair and waited for him to finish drinking. She didn’t look mad anymore. Her kind brown eyes were full of compassion. Like the words she just said. Words, he never heard anyone speak before to anyone like him. He put the glass on the floor and swallowed hard, before speaking again.

“Did you get all _that_ from my stories?” he knew it was a dumb question, considering all that’d been said just now, but it was the only thing he could manage.

She leaned closer again. A hint of smile in her eyes, “I read between the lines.”

His mind got a grip on reality and was now trying to process everything that’d just happened.

“Did you just get mad at me for hating John… who is actually me?” another pearl. Man did he feel like an idiot.

“Ain’t _that_ ‘fucked up’,” she laughed, clearly imitating him.

“Did you just call me a ‘moron’? Do you always call your patients names?”

“That depends. Do you think you’re the _first_ self-loathing bloke to walk through my door?”

Peter looked at her with genuine disbelief, “How the _fuck_ do you do it…”

Lauren put a hand on his arm and squeezed it softly, “How the _fuck_ do _you…_ ”

She moved her chair even closer and took his hand into both of hers. Her voice was soft and soothing, when she spoke again.

“I want you to listen to what I will say now. And, wherever you go from here, whatever path is laid ahead of you, I want you to take those words with you,” she paused and waited for him to nod. “Whatever John did… whatever mistakes he made… it wasn’t who he was. His moral center was true. Or else he wouldn’t feel like that about the things he did. John was a true hero. And he deserves to find peace. And he deserves to find love. And he deserves to find a home at the end of his journey. You can’t find redemption in others. You have to be able to forgive yourself and to see yourself for who you truly are, before you can accept others seeing you in that way. John’s tragedy was, that he hated himself so much, he couldn’t believe, that people could actually love him. I don’t know the reason for John needing to be dead. I can only guess it has to do with his next mission. Whatever that mission is, knowing John, he will see it through. That’s just the person he is. But, Quinn, let it be his last. Bring him home. Bring him to the woman he loves so much. Maybe Caroline did go on. Maybe years would pass before they meet again. Maybe she would get married in a mean while. But John deserves to know. Don’t let him _assume_ she is safe and happy. The John I know… he would want to find out for himself.” Lauren squeezed his hand in between hers and waited for him to lift his face and look her in the eye. “Forgive John. Get him off the hook. Cut him some slack. He deserves it. And you have to find it in your heart to believe it, Quinn.”

He was almost at the door, when he heard her call his name. He turned around and found her standing right behind him. She extended her arm for a handshake _._ Her words came back to him: “ _And, while I know, John never did what he did for glory or fame, I, for once, would have liked to shake his hand. And to thank him. For shedding bits and pieces of his soul on foreign soil, providing the peace, that my children can enjoy.”_ Quinn took her hand into his.

“Thank you,” she said simply, knowing he understood what she was thanking him for.

He felt the taste of tears flooding his throat. Whatever he wanted to say to her, she already knew. She had to know. So, he just nodded. _It’s for people like you that people like John do what they do._

_____________________________

Peter heard someone talking outside. The parking lot was just beneath his window. He saw Lilly walking to her car, talking loudly on the phone. He stuffed the envelope into the inner pocket of his coat and sprinted down the stairs.

“Lilly…” he called out, as she was entering her car.

“Jesus, you scared me,” Lilly threw her purse onto the back seat and slammed the back door.

“Sorry,” he smiled. He knew his smile melted her heart. “Can I get a ride with you to the gas station at the village?”

“Sure thing, honey. Hop in,” she was already in the driver’s seat waiting for him to close the passenger’s side door. “A little late to be heading out for you, isn’t it? Will be too dark to walk home at this hour.”

“Nah, it’ll be fine,” Peter noticed something on the dashboard. “Jesus, Lilly, did you leave the chocolate on  your fucking car window? It’s leaking everywhere!”

Lilly laughed heartedly and started an engine, “Who cares, honey. You know what they say about chocolate: it’s the only thing, that can give you real pleasure, even when it’s soft.”

The drive to the nearest village was about twenty minutes. Lilly was chatting nonstop. Quinn was just sitting there, looking out the window, listening. She stopped the car right outside the gas station.

“That good for you?” she asked, killing the engine.

“Perfect. Thanks,” he remained seated and looked at her.

“I am never gonna see you again, aren’t I?” she said with a sad smile.

“Shit, Lilly!” she never failed to surprise him. “You should have been a detective or a fucking intelligence officer, I been telling you for months now.”

She placed her soft wrinkled hand on his cheek, “I am just a smart old lady, is all.”

He put his palm on top of her hand and held it closer to his face, “I am gonna miss you the most.”

“Back to work?” he could see, that, without knowing what kind of work he did, she knew enough to be worried about him. He nodded and sighed deeply. “You be careful out there, do you hear me? You promise the old lady, you will be careful.”

“I promise,” he did.

“And get married. And have yourself some babies. God knows this fucked up world could use more of your kind.”

“I will work on that, too,” Quinn laughed. He took the envelope from inside of his coat and held it out for her to take. “Will you make sure Lauren Lewis gets this?”

She took the letter from his hand and put it on her lap, “I sure will, honey.”

Peter leaned closer and pressed his lips to her cheek, “I will never forget you, Lilly.”

And just like he came to them, out of nowhere, she watched him walk away and disappear into the night.

____________________________

Lauren Lewis opened her office door the following morning and saw an envelope on the floor. And just like that, she knew.

She picked it up, closed the door behind her, sat at her desk and took out a piece of paper, hidden inside it.

_“Dearest Lauren,_

_I couldn’t leave without telling you how the story really ended._

_You see, John didn’t die in the end. He came very close, though. But you saved him. In every way a person could and should be saved._

_I think, if John had a voice, he would tell you something like this:_

_‘I will never forget you._

_I will never forget what you did for me._

_I am forever in your debt._

_I hope to see you again, some day. After all, you do owe me a beer._

_John’”_


	7. The Lone Gunman

When the line went dead after his brief conversation with Quinn, Saul remained seated on the edge of the fountain. He was still holding his burner phone and his eyes were fixed on the dark screen. He needed to get back to the field office. Although, ‘field office’ was a bit of an overstatement, seeing how he occupied one of three rooms, rented by the agency (probably not even officially) in one of the older office buildings in Lower Manhattan. Saul had mixed feelings about that place. Every time he looked at its faded, peeling façade, he couldn’t help but see a part of himself in it: a sturdy, old, worn down structure, grimly standing against the background of Upper Manhattan skyline.

The world was changing around him, and, as much as he tried to keep up, there were some things he simply didn’t believe in. It was all computerized nowadays. Saul knew, a computer program would never betray you. But then again, it would never analyze the situation and adapt on the fly, either. To a machine they were nothing, but numbers. The greater the number, the greater the probability of success. The lesser the number, the lesser the risk. He just couldn’t accept that. Hell, eight years ago, if a computer was operating the drone above his head in Pakistan, it wouldn’t hesitate for a second, before firing. After all, he was just one person. Carrying out that mission, would save thousands of lives. He could deal with an asset betraying him. Exploiting the weakness was, after all, what they did. Those were the rules of the game. And he was, probably, one of the last people in the world, still playing it. Still believing in human intelligence over cyber penetrations. He was a dying breed. And it made him feel very tired.

And it also made him feel disillusioned about the idea of this elusive _greater goo_ d: when you threaded the line for as long as he had, you couldn’t help, but wonder, just how much sacrifice was justifiable, and just how much made the end not worth the means any longer. The truth was, people romanticized the work he did. They believed there was the _real_ world, the one they lived in every day, and there was this dark, mysterious, intriguingly dangerous world, where intelligence officers conducted their clandestine operations. They watched movies and TV shows, and they read books, and they felt thrilled and inspired. They read the morning paper and listened to the news, while driving to work, and they thought they were caught up with the latest affairs. The truth was, their real world was nothing, but an illusion. A fiction story, written by people like Saul. Because the real world was dark and ugly. And the work they did had no thrill. It involved making hard choices and living with them. He sometimes imagined what the news headlines would look like, had the world been, in fact, the way he saw it. Instead of saying “Hezbollah commander escapes assassination attempt. Three of his closest associates die in the bombing”, it would say “High ranking Hezbollah commander, who was in fact a CIA asset, was driven into the mountains to be met and debriefed by his case officer. Three innocent bystanders died in a diversion, staged to look like assassination on his life.”

When Saul was a young intelligence officer, he used to find comfort, watching the life go on around him. He would drive home from an office or an airport, and stop his car near a school. He would sit there and watch the children laugh. And he knew it was all worth it. Those things he had to do, those choices he had to make, they seemed justifiable, on a larger scale of things. Today, more than four decades later, the only children he was able to think about, were those that were orphaned, when he had to take the hard line.

He remembered Adal telling him, that the mission was more important, than people. Even their own people. He used to believe that, too. He wondered if Adal believed it still. Knowing him, he probably did. And there was a part of Saul, that envied him for it. After all, what would _he_ do if he was the one standing in Ops 1 in Islamabad and it was Carrie there, with Haqqani, being used as a live shield. Would _he_ take the shot? He knew, Adal would. And he was realizing with horror, every time he thought about it, that he, probably, would, as well.

There wasn’t much moral clarity in their line of work. In fact, if they did it right, there could never be. It was always the smaller scale and the larger scale. And then it was an even larger scale. After so many years in the service, he was yet to discover, if there was even such a thing as the _largest_ scale – that, which would tramp all other scales. There always seemed to be something, that was more important. And the same people, he would hunt down, while risking other people’s lives, would soon become assets, whom he would later protect, while risking other people’s lives. And nothing ever changed. They were still in this game. And it was still just as shady as it was forty years ago.

Saul was thinking about his most recent choice. It’d been two weeks since he made the decision to leak the intel they had on those assassinations. He knew then, that he was handing this person or persons, whoever they were, to the most ruthless network of operations he had ever encountered. He had witnessed firsthand, what happened to people, caught in their way. He wished he could tell himself, that, beside salvaging their mission, he did this, because they were bad people, committing murders all over the world. But, if there was anything he learnt for sure in his life, it was that there were no good people or bad people. The only thing people could be judged by, were their actions. And how those actions affected their current agenda. After all, one man’s hero _was_ , in fact, another man’s traitor. Saul felt torn inside: between his duty and obligation to see this mission through and his need to understand, or, at the very least, to know the name or the names of people, whose death sentence he signed two weeks ago. He was still struggling to find that elusive connection between those seemingly random deaths. Perhaps, if he had more names of the victims, he would be able to see the pattern more clearly.

He missed Carrie. If there was a person, who would be able to figure it out, he had no doubt _she_ would. He missed seeing her mind at work. It was the most mesmerizing thing he ever encountered. He needed her so badly now. But then, Carrie was the one person he could never approach. Mostly, because five years ago, she became the first real casualty of this mission.

He never really asked her, if she loved Quinn. Not in so many words, anyway. He knew, they shared a bond, which transcended many boundaries of human relationships. He knew, Quinn was the only person Carrie ever trusted implicitly. And he knew, doing what they did, that wasn’t something to be taken for granted. Spies never trusted each other. Ever. If there was set of unwritten rules, by which they operated, the first one would definitely be “trust no one”. They could collaborate with each other, they could lead joint operations, but the information they had would always be kept compartmentalized. No joint agenda could make an intelligence officer give away all their cards. There was always the big play and many side plays. But that wasn’t the case for Carrie and Quinn. She placed her trust and her life in his hands, over and over, never doubting him. And Saul knew, Quinn never failed her.

Over the first two years following Quinn’s ‘death’, Saul stood by and watched Carrie’s heart die a slow, agonizing death. Shedding all hope and losing all faith with every passing day. He watched the light in her eyes grow dimmer every time her saw her, all the time knowing that he had the power to stop it. He came very close to breaking and telling her the truth many times. But he never did, keeping the promise he made to a man, whose ultimate sacrifice was meant to keep her safe. And to set her free.

When, three years ago, she seemed to snap out of it and really move on, Saul knew, he should have been happy for her. But, there was a part of him, that was even more heartbroken, than before. He realized then, that, although he could talk to Quinn and they kept regular contact, coordinating the mission all over the world, his death was now more real than ever. They said, if you really mattered to someone, if someone remembered you, if you made a difference in someone’s life, then even if you died, you wouldn’t really die at all. But then, wasn’t it also true, that if the only people you knew, the only people who cared about you, went on with their lives, you were dead, even if you really weren’t?

Saul felt a vibration in his pocket and his phone rang. It wasn’t the burner, which was still clenched in his hand. It was his private line.

It was Max, telling him about a change in plans for their gathering this evening and asking if the new time was ok with him.

“Sure,” Saul replied. He got up and started walking back to his office. “I’ll be there,” he couldn’t help, but appreciate the irony, of him going to a memorial for a man, who was in fact sitting in a safe house, mere several miles away, keeping an eye on their surveillance feed. Wouldn’t _that_ be a good food for thought for his next melancholic soul searching… “How _is_ Carrie?” he asked, “Is she in yet?”

“She is good, I guess. Keeping busy,” he heard Max’s voice. Not even a little worried. Max never had a talent of hiding his feelings, when he talked. His voice was always a dead giveaway. He was no good as an intelligence officer. Which was why Saul liked him so much. “She is meeting with our lawyers. Will be in around noon. Should I tell her to give you a call?”

“No. That’s fine. Just tell her I said hi. I will see you both tonight.”

He was about to put the phone back in his pocket, when it rang again. The caller ID read “Feldman Medical Center”. He hated Dar Adal, sometimes: he felt old enough without having a clinic setting invasive procedures appointments for him, as part of their meeting cover.

“Hello,” a pleasant woman’s voice greeted him as soon as he answered, “am I speaking to Saul Berenson?”

“Yes, this is him,” he stopped and was waiting for instructions.

“Mr. Berenson, I am so sorry to bother you, but we have an earlier opening for the procedure you have scheduled for this afternoon. Would you be interested in coming in now, instead? Say in half an hour?”

There was only one reason Adal would push for a meeting ahead of schedule: they had a green light. Their mysterious third party was found out. And an operation was a go again.

“Absolutely,” he confirmed, quickening his pace and taking his car keys out of his pocket. “I can be there in twenty minutes.”

“That’s absolutely wonderful, sir. I will be sure to have all the forms ready for you. See you soon,” the line went dead.

Ten minutes later Saul walked into Feldman Medical Center building and approached the receptionist. She handed him an envelope and pointed to one of the doctors’ offices. He went inside and quickly changed his clothes to a different suit, laid neatly on the examination bed. Inside the envelope there was another set of car keys. He walked out the back door, got into a black Chevrolet and drove away.

________________________________

He found Dar Adal sitting at his usual table in the same restaurant, owned by his cousin, where they met many times before. This section was empty, as usual, and the only other person in the room was a waiter, a handsome young man in his early twenties, who was busy opening a bottle of red wine and filling Adal’s glass. The entire thing, including the clothes Dar was wearing, were so painfully familiar, that he couldn’t help but wonder, if, in over thirty years that he had known the man, something ever changed about him.

As Saul sat down across the table from him, Adal leaned in and lifted a bottle of wine, “You should really try this, my friend. It’s 1961 Haut-Brion. Not the most expensive out there, but I guarantee you it’s the most exquisite.”

“It’s nine o’clock in the morning,” Saul stated with a hint of a sting.

“C’mon… We are the no-men of the no man’s land, remember? It’s after five pm in Damascus. Drink with me, Saul, for Christ’s sake.”

“You have a point,” Saul smiled and gestured the waiter to fill his glass as well. They waited patiently for the man to exit the private section of the restaurant and close the doors. “So…” Saul was the first one to break the silence. He raised his glass. “We are celebrating,” there was no question in his tone.

“Indeed, we are, my friend,” Dar gently touched his glass to Saul’s and took a small sip from the thick dark liquid. His eyes closed in genuine pleasure. “This is a great way to start a day.”

Saul tasted the wine. He was never very good at appreciating good wines. So, he just took his partner’s word for it, “Is it confirmed?” he asked, finally, setting his glass aside.

“Beyond any doubt. I contacted you as soon as I came back from meeting with Jefferson. They have the motherfucker. We can finally bring this to the final stage.”

“Did he tell you who it was?”

Dar took another sip from his wine, before answering, “No. And I didn’t ask.”

“You are not even slightly curious?”

“I am _very_ curious. But I was told it was a lone gunman and, since we weren’t going to pick him up and bring him in for questioning anyway, my curiosity went cold right there.”

“And you trust the information to be reliable...”

“Very. Jefferson had a meeting with a high-ranking official within our government this very morning. You were right about using this to promote him and bringing him closer to our point of interest.”

“Still… we handed them the intel they needed to catch the guy. Aren’t you even remotely interested in knowing, who it is we basically handed a death sentence to? And why he did it?”

“Who cares?” Dar spread his hands. “For all I know, it was a retired special forces guy, who’s gone mad and went on a rampage to take revenge on his handlers. I can’t make any more sense of it, than you can.”

“Still… a lone gunman? Killing spree of this scale?” something didn’t sit right with Saul. And, above that, he highly doubted Dar was telling him the truth. Well, not the _whole_ truth, anyway.

“I know,” Adal replied, mimicking genuine admiration. “I wish I could scoop this guy to work for us. I mean, this probably took lots of planning and resources… and time. The guy is a modern-day Monte Christo, for Christ’s sake.”

Saul knew at that point, there was nothing more he would get out of Dar Adal. After all, those were the rules – they all kept some things to themselves. Besides, he was right – there was nothing he could (or would) do, even if he knew, who the guy was; not without compromising everything they had worked for.

“Fine,” he said after a long pause. “We move forward. I will set up the next stage.”

Adal nodded, “And for fuck’s sake, arrange for our _friend_ to be transported back where he can be most useful. Don’t look at me with such surprise. You thought I didn’t know, you brought him back to the States to run surveillance for you?”

Saul wasn’t surprised at all, “He will fly out first thing tomorrow morning.”

Dar said nothing. Instead, he bent down and removed a yellow folder from a briefcase underneath the table. He handed it to Saul and waited for him to look inside. There was a photograph of Peter Quinn, exiting a building. There was no question about it – it was Carrie’s back yard.

“ _This_ is why I told you to never bring him back here,” Adal hissed through clenched teeth.

“He told me he never made contact,” Saul closed the folder and gave it back.

“For fuck’s sake, Saul, if my guy could take those pictures, _anyone_ could.”

“Your guy was following him. Everyone else thinks he is dead. I had a talk with him. I don’t think he will be coming back there.”

“I have known Peter for a whole lot longer than you have. He was  one of my guys for more than 10 years before he met her. He was never easy, mind you. But _this_??? This is _madness_. This is some twisted incurable sickness…”

“He will be out of the country by tomorrow morning. I wouldn’t think much of it if I were you,” Saul took another small sip from his wine and put the glass on the table. “Anyway, I need to head back. My ‘appointment’ will be over soon.”

“She called me, you know,” Dar continued, ignoring his last words. “The same day those pictures were taken, I get a call from Carrie Mathison. The same Carrie Mathison, from whom I didn’t hear in… five years? Longer? Just like that… she calls me.”

Saul sat back in his chair. He didn’t expect _that_ , “What did she want?”

“To meet. She said, she needed to pick my brain on some security arrangements for one of her clients.”

“What did you say?”

Dar scoffed, “What do you think? I agreed immediately. We need to know, what she knows.”

“Have you considered the possibility, she was telling the truth?”

Dar leaned forward, “Have you considered the possibility, that you might have screwed up the last five years of our work? Foreign intelligence penetration into United States government, on this scale… Do you think it’s a game for them? If Carrie leads to Peter, Peter leads to us. And we don’t get to sit this one out, Saul. This is not going to be a fuckup. And it’s not going to end with a slap on our wrists. They will end us. And our assets. And our families. And they will scorch every inch of the earth we ever stepped on. There is only one way this will end. Us or them.”

Saul didn’t answer. He knew exactly how high the stakes were this time. He got Mira out of the country four years ago. And no one knew where she went. Not even him.

“When are you meeting her?” he asked.

“Two o’clock. Her office. I will keep you posted.” Adal picked up the folder and put it back into his briefcase. “I will deal with Mathison. You get Peter out of here. For good, this time. Our window is closing fast.”

He watched Saul get up and walk away. He waited for the door to close behind him. Then he went to the window and made sure, he got into the car and drove away. It wasn’t before the Chevy disappeared around the corner, that Dar Adal sat back at the table and took out a different folder from his briefcase. He took another photograph out of it.

On the picture, there was a service entrance to a parking lot of a movie theatre. The same parking lot, where ex-senator (the one, he once had tied up in his underwear in this very restaurant’s meat locker) was blown to pieces mere two weeks ago. The shot was a frame from a video, taken by a security camera of a cellphone store across the street. And, walking out of the parking lot, not more than half an hour before the explosion, dressed in a maintenance uniform, there was Carrie Mathison. Or, should he say, the lone gunman.

________________________________________

Saul drove several blocks down the street. He had fifteen minutes to get back to the clinic. But this couldn’t wait. He had a bad feeling about it. And, over the years, he learnt to always trust his bad feelings. Something was happening, that he wasn’t aware of, and it bothered the hell out of him. He took out the burner phone and dialed.

Peter answered after the first ring, “There has definitely been a development. But nothing concrete to report yet.”

“I know,” Saul was panting nervously. “They know. I just met with Dar Adal.”

“So, you have a name?”

“No. He said they never gave him the name.”

Peter considered his words, “They never gave _him_ the name or he wouldn’t give _you_ the name?”

“Both. Neither. It’s Dar Adal.”

“Fair point,” Peter didn’t need further clarification. “What do you need, Saul?” he asked, straight and simple.

“He wants you out of the country. Knowing him, the surveillance will be dead by tomorrow morning. The latest. I need you on it. For as long as we have eyes and ears in that place. I need to know, who it was. Something just doesn’t add up, Peter.”

Peter could feel the cold fear in Saul’s voice, “Saul, I am not moving away from the screen. For as long as you need me here,” his tone was soft and reassuring, when he spoke back.

Saul took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his forehead and temples, “I trust you,” he heard himself saying, and, as those words were forming in his mouth, he realized – it wasn’t just Carrie, who trusted Quinn so implicitly. He knew there and then, that, against all rules and all preconceptions, he would trust this man with everything he was.

___________________________________________

Peter put the phone on the table, next to his laptop. He was alone in a safe house. Well, he was alone in a safe _room_ , more like it. It was an empty mini-studio apartment. In the corner, there was his sleeping bag. Right next to it, neatly folded, some fresh clothes, a bag with his old ones, and his rifle. The only other furniture consisted of a table and a chair. In a trash can, next to where he sat, there were empty food cans: canned soup, canned beef stock, canned tuna… canned everything. Old habits died hard, apparently.

He flipped his laptop open again, typed in his password and went online. No new calls while he was on the phone with Saul. He opened the live camera and routed the sound to his Bluetooth piece. He was watching the private office of the Secretary of Defense. God only knows how Saul managed to get eyes _and_ ears in there. The place was swept for bugs on a daily basis. And yet, every morning the feed was back. Peter had no idea how deep that contact of Saul’s went. But it had to be very high up to pull off something of this magnitude. He stopped asking questions (or wondering for that matter) about their way of intelligence gathering a long time ago. But this bothered him. Getting this deep inside the Pentagon to put surveillance in a private office of the Secretary of Defense was disturbing enough. The need to spy on the Secretary of Defense, was a whole new level of unthinkable. He could feel the threads of information inside his head coming close together. And the picture, that was forming, scared the hell out of him.

And then there was Saul. The fear in his voice. The things he said. And the things he didn’t say. Damn right, it didn’t add up.

Peter could never explain the nature of his attachment to Saul. He often wondered, if it was just a reflection of his feelings for Carrie, given their being so close. But then, it couldn’t be just that. Saul was a good intelligence officer. And he was a good man. A way better man than the one who raised and trained him. He was _not_ getting on that plane the following morning. Or the morning after that. Peter knew, it was his Achilles’ heel – people who needed him. Especially, if he cared about those people. He would not leave Saul alone. Not until it was all behind them.

His Bluetooth piece came to life and Peter heard a door open. He turned his attention to the screen. A tall woman with long dark hair was standing in the doorway. Behind her, he could make out two men in black suits. Secret service. It was the President of the United States. Peter moved closer to the screen and put his half eaten can of tuna on the table. He cranked the volume all the way up.

Elizabeth Keane turned back and ordered her men to close the door. It was Peter’s turn to have a bad feeling about this. He instinctively reached for the phone.

The man, sitting at the desk, jumped up, “Madam President…” he started, but she gestured him to be silent.

She was standing across the desk from the Secretary of Defense now, leaning forward, her palms on top of the papers, scattered all over the surface.

“Five years ago, I told you to take care of her,” as he tried saying something in return, she silenced him again. “You assured me, and I quote, that ‘she wasn’t going to be any trouble’. So, let me ask you now… Do you consider _sixteen_ _dead operatives in three_ _years_ enough trouble?”

Peter started dialing. His fingers could barely move. There was something very bad coming. He couldn’t put it together yet, but he had a distinct feeling, the shit was about to hit the fan.

They argued in hushed voices and he could barely make out complete sentences.

“Let me put it to you the way you understand,” he heard Keane’s voice, rising above the noise. And he watched in horror, how the very woman, whom he was willing to protect with his own life just five years ago, spoke the words that would haunt him for the rest of his days. “Either you take care of Mathison. Or I take care of you.”

The phone fell from his hand. He needed to pick it up. He needed to call Saul. But his arms and legs wouldn’t listen anymore.

 “Yes, ma’am,” he heard the man reply. “We are trying to locate her right now. And, our contact is picking up her kid from school as we speak.”

There was no sound anymore. The only thing Peter could hear was a high-pitched noise. The adrenaline shot into his bloodstream with such force, that he felt his heart beating from inside of his skull. He heard himself scream, a cry of agony, a growl of a wounded animal. Before he knew it, before he could get his phone or lock the door, he was running. He leaped down the stairs and slammed into the wall. He felt no pain. He didn’t remember getting into his car and stepping on the gas so hard, he could smell the burnt rubber. The only thing on his mind, repeating over and over, was a single thought: _get to Franny._


	8. The Little Spy

Franny had math for her fourth period. Math bored her. It wasn’t like she didn’t like math (in fact, her uncle Max always used to say how she had great understanding of numbers and logic), but she got bored easily: they were solving the same kind of problems over and over again. Same problem – different numbers. Franny tried to keep up and write down in her notebook, but, more often than not, her mind would wander, and she would find herself looking out the window and thinking about million different things, none of which had anything to do with math. Her teacher, Mrs. Preston, used to tell that to her mother, during their parent teacher conferences, _“She has great potential. And a very bright mind. But she needs to pay more attention in class. And do her homework.”_ Her mother told her, that all teachers said things like that. But that she did have to try harder. And Franny would promise to. And yet, her mind just wouldn’t listen. And her homework was always a mess, no matter how hard she tried to keep it tidy and organized.

Her uncle Max thought she would make a great programmer, when she grew up. And she did enjoy watching Max work with computers. It fascinated her, how he knew so many languages, each having so many different rules and commands, and how he could make her computer do such amazing things, by just typing in words and numbers. But then, her uncle Saul thought she would make a great spy, because she was very observant and she paid attention to details. She did, too. There was this game she made up, when she was little: she would go somewhere with her mother, and she would look at people around her and make up stories about them, based on how they were dressed, what groceries they were carrying, how clean their shoes were and what car they drove. She would give them names. In the matter of fact, all her neighbors had names like that. She even got in trouble once, when she told her mother, that a ‘sloppy redhead smoker’ came to borrow some sugar. She really had to stop doing that.

Uncle Max and uncle Saul were the only family she had (besides her mother, that is). Well, she did have her aunt Maggie and her cousins. But they had been living in Europe for some time, and she barely got to see them, except on summer vacations. She never knew her father and she didn’t know much about him. Her mother told her, that he died before she was born and that his name was Nicholas. She said, he died in a line of duty. Franny thought he was a spy, too, like uncle Saul. She figured, they were all spies at one time, when they all used to work together (well, maybe except uncle Max, who was a geek). But Saul told her once, her father was a soldier. And that he spent a long time abroad fighting the enemy. And that he died for his country.

Saul wasn’t around as much as Max. But he would come for dinner several times a week, and she always looked forward to his visits. Mostly, because he always told her stories. When she was little, he used to read to her, until she would doze off. Later on, he started making up stories of his own. After dinner, he would sit with her on the couch in their living room and tell her about brave and clever spies – how they worked hard to uncover enemy’s insidious plans and how they would then outsmart the bad guys and, sometimes, even make some bad guys work for them.  She never knew how much of his stories were actually true (seriously, what spy would ever tell the truth about the work they did), but she was always fascinated and could never get enough. Her mother was not happy about it – any of it. She would always scold Saul and Max for fighting at the dinner table over what Franny should be, when she grew up. And she would give Saul those meaningful threatening looks, when he would get carried away with one of his stories.

About a month ago, her mother gave up, though. It was one of those evenings and they were all in the living room, waiting for the dinner to be ready, when Saul asked her to tell him about school.

_“Oh,” exclaimed Franny. She completely forgot to tell him about her recent victory. “I turned Steve.”_

_Max made a funny noise and his tea went through his nose and all over the place. Saul was patiently waiting for her to elaborate. Her mother, who was getting the plates to set the table, skipped a step and almost flipped over._

_“You did WHAT to WHOM?” she put the plates on the table and propped her palms on her hips. She had that look, when she eyed Max and Saul, which said ‘I will hunt you down and take you out’. Or, at least, that’s what it sounded like in Franny’s head._

_“I turned him. Into double agent,” clarified Franny, although, she suspected her mother hardly needed her to._

_“Come again?”_

_“See, he was friends with Mellie and Suzanna – you know, the snobs – and they used to do all kinda nasty things to Davy and Ross. So, now Steve tells me what they are planning. So, we can stop it. Because I turned him.”_

_“I see,” her mother raised one brow. “So, what exactly did you do to ‘turn’ him?”_

_“I shared my lunch with him for a month.”_

_Saul was laughing quietly, until he started coughing._

_“Oh, I hope you have an exit plan,” her mother stared him down, barely keeping herself from smiling._

_“Mom, spies only need an exit plan, when they are blown,” protested Franny._

_“Oh Christ, I give up,” her mother exhaled loudly and raised her hands. “Dinner will be ready in ten minutes.”_

_When she disappeared back into the kitchen, Franny saw Saul holding up his palm and wiggling his fingers, waiting for her to high-five him._

This story always made her smile, and, sometimes, even giggle. She tried not to giggle now. Especially, since she just caught Mrs. Preston looking at her and nodding her head towards the board. Franny tore herself from her thoughts and started copying the next assignment into her notebook.

She looked at the time, again. It was just quarter past ten. Her school day didn’t finish until three o’clock today. Jerry, one of her mother’s coworkers was picking her up. She always knew in advanced. That was part of the _deal_ her mother made with her – she always told her who would pick her up and Franny was never allowed to go home with anyone else. Every day, as they walked to the car, her mother would say _“Remember the deal, right?”_ Like Franny could ever forget.

She liked Jerry. He was married and had two daughters, both much younger, than she was. But his wife Ellen was always very kind to her. And Franny sometimes stayed to sleep over or even spent entire weekends with them, when her mother would travel abroad for work and Max was busy.

She looked at the clock on the wall again. Ten seventeen. The time was just too slow today. And, although she generally liked it at school, today Franny couldn’t wait for the day to finish.

She never went to Peter’s memorial before. No one ever asked if she wanted to. The truth was, just like Max and Saul were her family, she knew, at one time, long ago, Peter was a part of it, too. She would listen to their stories at the dinner table, and then, when someone started talking about Peter, there would be this gap. And everyone would stop laughing at once. And then everyone would stop smiling. And then there would be this awkward silence. And then someone would say ‘anyhow…” or “anyway…” and they would change the subject.

Remembering, that he was gone made everyone sad. Especially her mother. So, Franny never brought it up. But, even though she was very little, when he died, and most kids her age didn’t remember anything, that happened to them at that age, she did remember Peter. And she felt very lonely, not being able to talk to anyone about him.

One day, not long ago, when her mother was busy with phone calls and work stuff, and Saul was helping her to bed, Franny asked him about it.

_“Saul, was Peter a spy, like you?”_

_“Hm,” Saul tucked the blanket around her and sat on the edge of her bed. “In a way, I guess,” he removed his glasses and thought about it for a while. “Peter was a very special kind of spy.”_

_“How so?” she turned on her side and propped herself up on her elbow._

_“Well, you see, he had this very special kind of training. Not like any of us did. It allowed him to carry out very dangerous missions and deal with some very dangerous people.”_

_Franny was quiet for a while, thinking about it, “He was very brave,” she said, finally._

_Saul nodded and let out a deep sigh. His smile was sad, when he leaned in and kissed her forehead, “That he was, honey.”_

Everyone called Peter a hero, for saving the President of the United States. But for Franny, he was this guy, who lived in their basement for a short time, who loved rabbits and who kept her safe on the scariest day of her life.

She was almost done solving the assignment, when she heard her name being called. She raised her head and saw Mrs. Dennis, the principal of the school, standing in a doorway and waving her over. She told Franny to gather her backpack.

“Jerry is here to pick you up earlier today,” Mrs. Dennis said, having had apologized to Mrs. Preston for interrupting her class, when they were both in a hallway.

That was part of the _deal_ , Franny knew. Max and Jerry were allowed to pick her up from school and they had this paper, signed by her mother, where she authorized them to do that on her behalf. All her teachers and the principal knew that.

“So early?” she asked, walking down the stairs next to the principal. Not, like she was about to protest or anything.

“I understand there is a memorial today, or something? And Jerry needs to go out of town, so he needed to pick you up now.”

“But I am going to the memorial. Mom said I could.”

“I don’t know about that, honey,” Mrs. Dennis said, when they were all the way downstairs in the main lobby. “But you can ask him yourself. There he is.”

Jerry was standing next to the door and waving. Franny sprinted towards him. Usually, he would pick her up and swirl her around. But today he just softly patted her head.

“All set?” he asked, as they walked out of the school building and headed towards the main gate.

“Yep,” Franny took his hand. It felt cold and wet. She looked up and saw little beads of sweat on his forehead, as well. It wasn’t hot at all. “Are you sick?” she asked.

Jerry wiped the sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his sweater, “Maybe a little. Been feeling under the weather lately. Nothing serious, though.”

“So, where are we going?”

“What do you mean? Didn’t your mom tell you? She has this memorial thing today and you are supposed to sleep over. Only we have to go visit Ellen’s mother, who’s been sick for a while. So, we need to leave now. I won’t be able to pick you up later.”

“But mom said I could come to the memorial,” Franny protested.

“Did she?” she noticed how Jerry was nervously looking around. It seemed, like he was barely listening to her. “Well, I guess it didn’t work out. Because she asked me to pick you up and take you with us.”

“Oh, ok.”

Franny tried to keep her voice casual. Because it wasn’t ok. It was not ok at all. The deal was broken and something was very wrong.

The deal was simple. When Franny started her second grade, about two years ago, her mother sat her down and told her something, that scared her very much at the time.

_“You know how I used to have a very dangerous job once, right? Well, there are some very bad people, who could still be very mad at me for the things I used to do. I know we are all safe now. And nothing is going to happen to any of us. But, I want to make a deal with you. So, we stay safe and look after each other. Every day I will tell you, who is picking you up from school. And I will also tell your teachers. So, if anyone else comes, no matter what they say, even if they say I sent them, you can never go with them. I am the only one, who gets to break my word to you. If I promise you something, and then someone comes and tells you I changed my mind, even if it’s one of our friends, don’t believe them. Franny, this is very important. I know it’s scary, but I need you to promise me. If something seems wrong to you, you run. You run and cry for help. I would rather have you embarrass Max or Jerry, than have something happen to you.”_

Franny looked around. Everyone was at school and there was no one on the street. Jerry was standing next to her, holding her backpack (with her cellphone still off and inside it, as they weren’t allowed to have cellphones on during school time), and looking from side to side. He was sweating again.

“I don’t see your car,” Franny said.

“Hold on a second,” he took his cellphone out of the pocket and typed something into a messenger window.

Grown-ups never thought kids were watching them, were they? She was tall enough to read the screen of his phone clear as day.

 _“I don’t see you,”_ he typed.

 _“Behind the supermarket. Your left,”_ he got in reply.

Franny lifted her foot and with every bit of strength she had smashed her heel into his toes. And then she ran.

She heard Jerry scream in pain and she hoped it would slow him down. She was a good sprinter, third in her class in short distances, but he was a grown man and she was nine years old and very small for her age. She turned right, the opposite direction of where they were ‘supposed’ to go, and sprinted down the street. For a second she thought, that it would probably be better if she ran back into school. But it was too late now. She saw a car approaching on the other side of the street – a minivan – and she started waving her hands, as she jumped into the traffic.

“Please stop. Help me. I need to call my mom.”

She didn’t know if the driver didn’t hear her, because the windows were closed, or if he was just startled, as she practically ran into him, but the minivan just drove past her. She heard another car right behind her, because she was now running in the middle of the street. It honked at her angrily and drove away as well.

Franny stole a quick look behind her. Jerry was on his feet and limping, but he was closing the gap between them faster, then she hoped. And he was on the phone, yelling at someone on the other end of the line, that she took right and they should go around the block. She jumped back to the pavement and kept running. There was an alley just a few blocks away, a narrow road in between two tall buildings. There was a side entrance in one of them. If she could make it there before Jerry, she could find a hiding place. She was running as fast as she could.

There was another car, very far away, speeding down the street towards her. Franny couldn’t make out the model or a color from this distance, and she never saw a car drive so ridiculously fast on a city road. It was _them_. They found her. Luckily, she was almost at the entrance to the side alley.

She was just past the corner, trying to remember, which of the side doors was unlocked, when she heard a deafening noise of screeching tires right in front of her. She saw a black van with tinted windows dead ahead. She turned around, only to see Jerry closing in on her.

“What do you want???” she screamed as loud as she could. Her voice broke into tears, as she felt trapped between the van and the man behind her. “Leave me alone!!! Somebody!!! HELP ME!!!!!”

She saw the side door of the van open and two men jump out of it even before it came to a full stop. She felt Jerry’s hand grab her waist and lift her from the ground. She was kicking violently, trying to stop one of the men from getting ahold of her feet. Someone pressed the palm of their hand on top of her mouth and nose. They pressed so hard, she felt a sharp pain, as her lips wedged into her teeth. Tears were streaming down her face and she couldn’t breathe. Before she knew what was happening, someone picked her up and threw her into the dark belly of the van. She was airborne for a fraction of a second, before smashing into something hard on the floor. She felt shattering pain in her chest, but she forced herself to the side, then sat up, her back to the wall, and started kicking again. One of the men raised his hand and slapped her hard across the face.  Her head snapped back and it all went dark for a second. That gave them enough time to grab her legs and arms and wrap a tape around them.

“Fuck, I think she bit me,” she heard one of them saying. “We should go.”

Franny’s eyes hurt and her head felt like someone just smashed it with a hammer. She saw one of the man tear off another piece of the tape and bring it close to her mouth. She tried to turn her face to the side, but someone was holding her forehead and her chin.

And then something happened.

Her head still towards the side door of the van, waiting for the tape to touch her skin, her sight blurred from tears, Franny saw another man jump into the van. There was no sound. Like his feet never touched the floor. She saw two hands appear above the shoulders of a man, who held the tape to her face. The hands closed on his head and jerked it to the side. She heard a loud crack and the man collapsed on top of her. Franny screamed and closed her eyes, burying herself even deeper against the other side wall of the van.

What she heard next sounded like a popping balloon. Or maybe a staple gun. One… two… three… And then a loud thud. She felt the van shake, as something heavy hit the floor. Then once more. And then it all went silent.

Franny felt the weight of a dead man on top of her lifting away, as someone picked him up and threw him to the side. She slowly peeled her face from the wall of the van and turned it to see what was happening. The light from the side door right in front of her hurt her eyes. She tried to blink her tears away, when she felt someone’s warm fingers touch her face. The man, who was now kneeling next to her, softly wiped the drops of moisture from her temples and cheeks. She wanted to see, what happened, but his palm blocked her side view.

“Please… don’t look,” he said in a low voice, almost a whisper.

She watched him put a gun with a silencer on the floor and take out a pocket knife. He cut the tape around her wrists and ankles and carefully removed it. She could feel his hands touching her arms, moving up, “Are you hurt?” he asked.

Her head felt like it was split in two. But she shook it from side to side. From the corner of her eye she could see a spatter blood on the back of the passenger seat. She felt tears fill her throat again and she took a deep breath, which sounded like a sob.

“It’s ok,” she heard his voice again. His hands gently stroking her arms. His fingers carefully removing strands of hair from her face. “I got you, Franny. You’re s-safe now.”

Franny lifted her head and squinted her eyes, trying to see him more clearly, despite the bright light right behind his back. She knew this voice. She knew this man. It was so long ago, that it seemed like a long-forgotten dream. Except, she never forgot him. She never forgot that day and his voice, when he told her “ _You know, you are al-lways s-safe w-with me, right?”._

Maybe it was because children were more prone to believe in miracles. Maybe it was, because believing, that he was here, saving her, just made so much sense. Maybe it was because a part of her always felt, that all this time he was out there, watching over her.  But Franny just knew.

She raised her hand and slowly touched the tips of her fingers to the side of his face, “Peter,” she whispered, without a hint of question in her voice.

He felt the heart burst in his chest, tears filling his throat and eyes, “Yes.”


	9. The Black Ops Team

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Franny and Quinn were always my favourite characters on Homeland. This is my personal tribute to them and to how I would have liked to see them. And, I know, many of you would, too.  
> I had this chapter in my head long before "The Choices" was born. It's not really necessary for the plot, but it's here, nevertheless.

She leaped into him, literally crashing into his chest. Peter almost lost his balance, but he managed to keep himself in an upright position. The feeling of her little hands, clasping at the shirt on his back, made his heart ache so much, that he wasn’t sure he could take another second of it. He wrapped his arms around her, completely shielding her with his body, pulling her in even closer. He didn’t know if he was completely lost in this moment, or if he was, actually, found, for the first time in his life.

The thought of not being able to get here on time, of what would happen to her, if he was just ten seconds too late, brought the world crashing down on his head. The adrenaline rush was gone and Peter realized, that it was the only thing, that kept him going. All he was left with now, was this overwhelming, paralyzing fear of losing her. And it broke him. It wasn’t just the tears in his eyes anymore: he was crying, sobbing quietly, and Franny could feel his hot breath on her face, his lips moving next to her temple, whispering words, that she couldn’t make out. He was shaking uncontrollably, holding her close to his heart, his hand covering her head and pressing it against his shoulder, “How did you get to be so brave…” he kept whispering, barely audible. “You’re so brave… how did you know to run…”. And he thanked her, over and over: for running… for fighting… for giving him enough time to find her. Because he didn’t know, what he would do, if he couldn’t save her. He dared not imagine the things he was capable of unleashing unto this horrible world for harming this little girl.

Franny closed her eyes. She could hear his heart beating right next to her ear. And she could feel his chest moving, his breathing irregular and heavy. She tore one of her hands from his shirt and softly stroked his back. She wanted so badly to make it better. She felt his head move and his lips press softly against the top of her head, thanking her. They were still inside the black van with tinted windows: the same place, where, just minutes ago, she was sure she was going to die. She didn’t look around, because he asked her not to, but Franny knew, that the people, who chased her and took her, were all dead. And yet, there was no place on earth she would rather be right now, than right here, wrapped in his arms, hidden from the world around her, feeling safer, than she ever did in her entire life.

And then she had it - she knew exactly what she was supposed to do to make it all better. She remembered, what she wanted to tell him all this time. Franny raised her head and looked into his eyes, his face really close to hers. She wiped his tears with her tiny fingers, like he wiped hers just minutes ago, and she smiled, “I always knew I was safe with you,” she whispered, answering the question he asked her all those years ago. And it worked, too. Because Peter smiled back. And she knew, he remembered. And she knew, it mattered. He covered the side of her face with his palm and touched his lips to her forehead. Franny put her head back on his shoulder. She could feel his breathing getting calmer, his shaking becoming less and less pronounced.

“How did you know?” Peter asked again and this time she could understand him. “How did you know to run?”

“He broke the deal. Jerry did,” she answered. And she told him all about the deal, her mother made with her. And about Jerry being nervous. And about the sweat beads on his forehead. And about his wet palms. And about the messages.

Peter knew, in that moment, more love and pride than he ever imagined possible to be contained in one human heart. He often thought about how he would give his life without a second thought to protect the people he cared about and to keep them safe. But it was the first time ever, that he realized: he didn’t want to die for her - he wanted to _live_ for her. He wanted to see this through and spend the rest of his life making her happy and watching her smile. There was something so fragile and yet so strong about this brave little girl. And he remembered, how it was the same breathtaking fragility and the same mind-numbing stubbornness, that made him fall in love with her mother so many years ago.

She was all Carrie, he thought. And just like that, he felt the reality slap him across the face and jolt him back into its grim claws.

“We have to go,” he pulled away and was holding Franny by her shoulders now. “Can you walk?”

She nodded, and the sharp pain in her head made her wince and cry out. Peter turned her face to the side, examining the large bruise underneath her left temple. His jaws clenched so hard, he could feel the taste of blood filling his mouth. He wanted to resuscitate them. All of them. So that he could kill them again. Slowly, this time.

“I might have some Tylenol in the car,” he said, forcing himself to smile.

He was putting away his gun and the pocket knife, when she suddenly asked, “Did you fix my computer?”

There was really no point denying it any longer, “Yep. And the front door lamp. And the back-yard camera. And the garbage disposal.”

“No, what I mean is… was that you, who left a pdf file of ‘Spying for Dummies’ in my download folder?”

Peter winked at her, “I thought you wanted to be a spy.”

“Nope,” she shook her head from side to side. “Black ops.”

That was going to be a long drive to the safe house, Peter thought, “Oh, boy,” he sighed deeply and pulled her back into his arms. “Your mom is gonna kill me for real this time, isn’t she?” he had no trouble picturing Carrie’s face, when she learnt her nine-year-old wanted to be a government trained assassin, when she grew up. And yet there was something so tender and touching in this simple expression of her admiration of him. No matter how misguided.

“Not if I protect you,” Franny had a huge smile on her face, when she looked up.

“I feel so much safer already,” he laughed. “Now close your eyes and I will lead you out of the van.”

“Why? I am not scared.”

“I am. Now close your eyes.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Ok I am not. But you need to close your eyes anyway.”

“Why?”

Peter exhaled loudly, “Because I am asking you, that’s why.”

“I’ve seen dead people before.”

“No, you haven’t. Not like this. Franny, please.”

“Yes, I have!”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, will you _just_ … _listen_? _Please!_ ” he was beginning to wonder if his heart was strong enough to have two Carrie Mathisons in his life. But then she obeyed, closed her eyes and let him lead her outside. He closed the side door of the van. She was standing next to him, her eyes still closed. Peter sighed, “Now you’re just doing this to piss me off, right?”

She opened her eyes and smiled at him, defiantly, “Yep.”

He leaned closer, “Well, it’s working,” he tried to keep his expression serious. He failed.

“No, it’s not,” she smiled even wider.

It was going to be a very- _very_ long drive to the safe house.

“So, what do we do now?” she asked, looking around.

“We do what black ops do when the mission is done,” Peter winked at her. He was trying to be cheerful. Although he wasn’t sure if he was doing it for her benefit or his own.

“We torch the car?” her eyes opened wide.

“Jesus, Franny! No. We turn around and we walk away.”

“Like we were never here?”

“Like we were never here,” Peter waited for her to take his hand and they started walking towards his car.

He parked in an alley just a block away. As he was speeding down the street, he saw her running towards him and turn right. He was about to go after her, when he saw the van. He considered smashing his car into it, but he couldn’t risk harming her. And he couldn’t get close enough in his car without being noticed. The only way to assure her safety, was to have an element of surprise. And for that he had to be on foot. But, that also meant he was taking a risk of not making it there on time. Peter felt a wave of nausea wash over him. How he managed to keep his mind cool enough to make any coherent tactical decision, was beyond him. He had some close calls over the years. Nothing even remotely close to this.

Franny saw him take out the keys and ran to the car, “Shotgun.”

“Ah-ha, right…” Peter unlocked the doors. He pointed to the driver’s seat, “This is where I get to sit. And this,” he opened the back door just behind it, “is where you get to sit,” he waited for her to climb into the car and buckled her in. “And if I tell you to go down, you open the seat belt and you slide down underneath and you stay down until I tell you, that you can come up. And if I start shooting and tell you to run, you will open the door just enough to roll out and you will run and you will not look back. And Franny,” he stopped her attempt to start another argument, “you will do all that without arguing with me and asking me ‘why?’.”

“Is that an addendum to the _deal_?” she asked, after she nodded, because he wouldn’t stop staring her down until she did.

“No. It’s a whole new deal. Spies have their own way of doing things and their own deals. In _black ops,_ we do it my way. Promise me, you will do as I say.”

“I will. I promise.”

Peter was about to close the back door, but he stopped himself. He remembered Lauren Lewis, and he remembered all the times she pointed out to him, that he never said the right thing at the right time. And she showed him how much grief and anger that caused him. There were so many things he would like to tell Franny. Some of them he couldn’t. Some of them he would never be able to. But, Lauren told him, sometimes he had to choose the most important thing. And he had to force himself to say it. Because he could never know if later wouldn’t be too late.

He realized, that rather sooner than later he will have to face Carrie. And god knew, it wasn’t going to be easy. But Franny _did_ make it easy. She didn’t ask him where he was and why he left them and made them believe he was dead. And he wanted - needed really - to make this right.

Peter opened the door wider and crouched next to her. He took both her hands into his, and held his head down for a long time, before speaking.

“I am so sorry I had to leave you,” he said, finally having the courage to look up and meet her eyes. “And I promise, that I will tell you everything I can, about where I have been and what’s going to happen next. And you have to believe me, when I say, that, if there was any other way, I would take it in a heartbeat,” he waited for her to nod, “We really have to go now. I need to get you to a safe place, so I can get back to my mission. And I _will_ have to leave you again. Because some people really need my help, and I can’t protect you and help them at the same time. But I need you to believe me, when I say, that I _will_ come back for you. No matter what. No matter how much time it takes. And, when I do, I will never ever leave you again,” he saw her fight back tears. “No-no, don’t,” he smiled, barely holding himself from breaking down again, “If you start crying now, I will start too and we both saw how _that_ ends.”

Franny laughed, wiping her tears with a back of her hand, “Will you have to go _now_?” she asked, holding a brave face.

“No,” he smiled and cupped her face in his palms. “First we need to find your mom. Then she will kill me. Then, Saul and whatever is left of me, will have to get you to a safe place. But I will stay with you at least until the morning.”

“Ok,” Franny said, holding her breath to keep the tears inside her throat, “But you promise... You will come back.”

Peter shook his head, “No. I don’t promise. I _swear_. I swear I will come back and I will find you. I swear on how much I love you, Franny. And… how much I love you… and your mom… is the _only_ thing I can swear on. Because it’s the single most important thing I have in the world.”

_______________________________

The safe house, where they were heading, was located in Greenwich Village. It wasn’t _really_ a safe house. Not _just_ a safe house, anyway. It was a whole wing in a building, which consisted of several safe houses, technical support rooms and two ops centers. The place was always manned and operational. Which was exactly what Peter needed right now.

A woman in a black work suit greeted them as soon as they stepped out of an elevator. She smiled down at Franny and checked Peter’s identification. It was the third time in the last three minutes. But he wasn’t really complaining, since Franny had a look of such pure joy on her face, every time they did that, that he was willing to undergo a full body search: he brought this little spy girl into a secret CIA facility – Alice in Wonderland would be envious. She wanted to see the ops centers and surveillance equipment – she wanted to see everything, period. Unfortunately, as a civilian, she wasn’t allowed anywhere, except the safe house and only while accompanied by an active operative. When the woman told them, she was going to get the keys and walked away, Franny pulled on his sleeve again.

“But I am not just a civilian. I am with you!”

Peter rolled his eyes. Ok, he needed a diversion. A distraction. Something.

“Listen,” he leaned really close to her and was now whispering in her ear. “When that lady checked my identification, what do you think it said?”

“That you are an employee of the CIA?” Franny whispered back, intrigued.

“That. And that I am an intelligence officer,” he waited for her to take it in and watched as her eyes opened wide.

“You mean…”

“Do you know how many people in this building know who I am and what I do?”

“No.”

“One,” he smiled and touched her forehead with his finger, “You.”

The expression on her face was second to none. Peter smiled and leaned closer to her ear, “By the way, how did you find out what I do?”

“Saul told me. He said you were a very special kind of spy with a very special kind of training. I looked it up,” she whispered. “Why are we whispering?”

“Because it’s the f….. damn CIA facility and there are cameras everywhere.”

“You weren’t going to say ‘damn’, were you?”

“No. Don’t tell your mom,” he winked at her. “You wanna know something else?”

“Tell me.”

“My name is not really Peter.”

Franny’s eyes were about to jump out of their orbits, “What is it?”

“John. And I don’t think even your mom knows that. Also, you can never call me that. But I just wanted you to know.”

“Wow,” she gave him a look of pure admiration and gratitude. And just like that all the talk about the ops center was yesterday’s news.

“And you know what else?” Peter continued.

“More?” she raised her voice but he put a finger to his lips and gestured to the camera right above their heads.

“I am starved. How about you?”

“Do they have food here? What kind?”

“No food. We can either cook for ourselves or order something.”

“Can you cook?”

“No. I am actually pretty useless around the house.”

“Wait…. Order in? To a CIA safe house?”

Peter laughed and touched his forehead to hers, “Fair point. Luckily, we have all those people downstairs, who know how to make that happen. Do you like Indian food?”

Franny wrinkled her nose, “No.”

“Let me guess… Greek.”

“Pizza.”

“Phewwww… I was really worried there for a second.”

Franny was starting to ask ‘why’, but the woman was back and Peter turned his attention to her.

“Mr. Quinn, Miss Mathison,” she was really serious this time and that made Franny even more thrilled, which, in all fairness, was a record on its own. “My name is Selena Grey. I will be your coordinating officer for the duration of your stay here. You can contact me any time using the internal phone in your house. You will be occupying apartment 3A. It’s two floors down to your right. Miss Mathison’s visitation privileges are limited to that floor and the entrance lobby. I take it you’re familiar with the regulations, Mr. Quinn, so I will skip that part. This is the electronic key to your apartment. Do you require anything right away?”

Peter took the electronic key and handed it to Franny. It was all black and had no numbers on it. Not even a barcode.

“This is soooo coooooolllllll!!!” she exclaimed and that earned her a wide smile from Selena.

“She is a spy,” Peter felt he needed to clarify. “First time in the field,” Franny shot him a scolding look, “I am sorry. My mistake. She is black ops. Here for my protection. But I guess you’re not supposed to know about it.”

Selena laughed and handed him a thick folder, “Anything I can get for you now, Mr. Quinn?”

“Yes, please. I need you to contact Saul Berenson on a secure line immediately and get me as soon as you do. I also need a new burner phone right away. And pizza.”

“Will do, sir. Have a safe stay,” Selena nodded and wrote something down. “And may I also say, Mr. Quinn… welcome home.”

They walked into an elevator and rode to the third floor. And then Franny looked up and Peter saw, that she understood, what those words meant.

“Your cover is blown,” she said and her eyes were very sad.

“Yes,” he smiled down at her and put his arm around her shoulder.

“Because of me…”

“No. Because very bad people wanted to hurt you. And, no matter what Saul told you about spies and covert operatives and how they always put the mission first, I want you to know, that you are more important than any cover or any mission. And I will not have you think otherwise. Ever.”


	10. The Largest Scale

Saul was standing in a doorway of a mini-studio apartment. Strike that. He was standing at the gates of hell and staring at the ruins of his life. Having had climbed two flights of stairs, he found the door ajar. There was no one inside. The laptop on the table was open, its screen off. There was a phone on the floor. The chair, next to the table was lying flat on its back. He stepped in and closed the door behind him. The sleeping bag was still spread out in the corner, pile of clothes next to it. The rifle was still there. But there was no Quinn in sight. He didn’t see any sign of struggle, other than the obvious. Knowing Quinn, if he was attacked, there _would_ be signs of struggle. A tripped chair and a phone under the table just didn’t cut it. On the other hand, knowing Quinn, the idea of him leaving a safe house unsecured like this was beyond insane; the guy was compulsive about proper procedure. But leaving the door wide open, leaving the surveillance equipment just sitting on the table, leaving his gear on the floor like this? Saul checked the rifle bag and the gun case next to it. One gun was still there. One was missing. So was one of three silencers. But then, Quinn always had a sidearm on him. The rifle was still neatly packed in the bag. _What the fuck happened here, Quinn?_

Saul fished the phone from under the table. The battery was two thirds full. There were five missed calls. All from his own burner. He pressed the back key and a dialer came up. Six digits were punched in. Those were the first six digits of his own number. Quinn tried to call him, before… whatever happened next. Saul picked up the chair and lowered himself into it. He checked the laptop. The surveillance feed was dead: no eyes, no ears. The black window in the middle of the screen read “No input”. _That_ was fast.

The last time they spoke was just a little over an hour and a half ago. Saul spent the following hour and fifteen minutes in his office. He made some phone calls and sent some e-mails. He was never an impatient man – waiting for an asset to make contact was nothing he hadn’t done hundreds of times over his years in the service. And yet, this was different: five years ago, when it all started, he knew a storm was coming; now he was standing in the very epicenter of it, still missing that vital piece of a puzzle, which could mean the difference between having an upper hand or ending up spending his life in a dark hole (or worse) – he was missing the big picture. So, he called Quinn again. Except, there was no answer; and Saul didn’t have a _bad feeling_ anymore – he could almost literally see all their work tumbling down, like a house of cards, collapsing under its own weight. He did try to call again. But it was that first time, when he knew, it was all lost. When the most punctual asset you ever worked with didn’t take your call, you didn’t wonder if they stepped out for a cigarette or were taking a shower. So, the other four calls he made from his car as he was heading to the safe house.

Saul checked the call log of Peter’s phone. It was empty. Like it was supposed to be. There were also no pictures or videos or messages. If anything, it was a clean burner of a highly trained and responsible operative. In fact, nothing around him suggested Peter ever breaking the protocol. Well, it was ‘nothing’ if you ignored this tiny insignificant detail of _him not being there._

Saul’s phone rang – his private line. He looked at the caller id and let out a loud sigh: he had no time for this now. But, end of the world or not, he knew better than not to answer his most reliable contact in NYPD. That’s just how it was – you could be staring into the abyss, but you never burnt relationships with your assets.

“Detective,” no hello, no how are you.

“I need your help locating someone,” homicide detective Nick O’Connor was never one for the small talk. Saul said nothing, knowing the details were about to follow. “Do you have a way of contacting Carrie Mathison? Other than her cellphone, that is?”

 _Now_ Saul needed details, “What’s up, Nicky?”

O’Connor knew better, than to give him the ‘police business’ line. It was always a two-way street between them, “Hold on a second,” Saul heard papers being moved, a chair screeching on the floor and finally the door closing. This was not information shared lightly, he knew. “A guy working with her… one Jerry Langdon, do you know him?”

“Sure,” Saul knew Jerry rather well. He met him and his wife and daughters at Carrie’s many times.

“I was just called to a crime scene, where he was found with a bullet in his head. His wife said he left for work this morning, nothing out of the ordinary. Two hours later he is dead inside a black van, along with three others: one with a snapped neck and two more with their brains all over the inside of the damn car. Fucking bloodbath. His body was the only one with any kind of id on. I called Mathison’s office, spoke to one… Max. He said Jerry _was_ in this morning, but left for a meeting with a client. Mathison’s cellphone just goes to voicemail. I figured, seeing you two are still close, you might have another way.”

“Sounds professional,” Saul caught himself involuntary turning his head and eying Peter’s fire gear on the floor. _Too_ professional.

“Gee, you _think?_ The three out of four, all except our man Jerry here, were well armed: side arms, army knives, and one had an ankle holster on him. From what I could see, none had a chance to reach. The guy with a broken neck – it’s fucking _broken_ : the spine was snapped so hard, it’s completely severed. Whoever did that… not an amateur. And none of the neighbors heard a single gunshot. So, I am guessing, a silencer.”

“It’s the fucking New York City, Nicky. People _never_ hear gunshots here. I am not saying you’re wrong. Just stating the obvious.”

Nick would laugh at that. Except it was too goddamn true to be funny, “We also found pieces of cut tape on the floor. So, I am thinking, a kidnapping gone south?”

Saul looked around him. A kidnapping would fit. If someone actually managed to get Quinn incapacitated and drag him into a van… and then he somehow got himself free… He was wondering why the seemingly unrelated events of Quinn’s disappearance and four dead bodies in a van somewhere kept meshing together in his head. He knew there could be no plausible connection at this point, except a very bad gut feeling and a complete failure to see a coincidence in a scenario of a trained killer, gone off the grid, and a professional hit happening within the same hour.

“Saul? You there?” he heard Nick’s voice.

“Listen, let me try and find Carrie for you and call you back.”

They said goodbye and Saul dialed Carrie’s number. He got the voicemail. He tried her other number – same deal. He tried Max, only to get a confirmation about what O’Connor just told him. And to realize, that Max couldn’t get ahold of her either. Was it like her to have her phones off in the middle of the day? Not really, according to Max. He sounded worried. So was Saul. He asked Max to have her call him the minute she walked in. The truth was, he had no idea how to find Carrie. But, at this point, he knew he would have to. And not for her to be questioned by the NYPD. It felt like the last five years never happened. Because it was the story of his life all over again. And, although the pieces of puzzle still didn’t make any sense, a familiar pattern seemed to emerge: an operation falling apart, bodies dropping, Carrie somehow tied to it all and Quinn gone rogue (or worse). He cursed under his breath.

Then he dialed Carrie’s number again. This time he left a message, “Carrie, we need to talk. I am looking for you. Please-please-please call me as soon as you get this.”

Saul thought, that if (hopefully _when_ ) she called him back, he was going to need her help. And he was going to need to break his word. And this realization just added another splash of black to an already dark canvas of his thoughts. He hoped to God, Quinn was ok. And he hoped to hell, he would forgive him.

He scrolled through his private line contacts and clicked on “Feldman Medical Center”. His finger lingered above the little handset icon, as his mind was sorting out the possible outcomes of bringing Dar Adal up to speed. For him to make a tactical decision, the pros had to outweigh the cons. Would Adal be able to locate Quinn? He doubted it. The only thing he could do regarding that was sit tight and wait for the phone to ring. Hoping it would be Quinn, and not the NYPD or the morgue. Would Adal be able to locate Carrie? Also, doubtful. Not to mention the fact, that Saul was not sure he was ready to share that particular piece of information with him. Adal never liked Carrie. Which, on its own, wouldn’t be much of a problem, seeing how personal feelings were never part of the game. But there was something much darker in a way, that Adal felt about Carrie. Saul could never quite understand why.

And then, relieving him of agonizing over making that decision, his burner phone rang.

The caller id was blocked. There was only one person in the world, who knew this number. But, despite trusting Quinn, Saul had no way of determining whether he was compromised or not. He pushed the call button, brought the phone to his ear, but said nothing. Whoever was on the other side of the line didn’t speak, either. Instead, Saul heard a series of tones. It was the CIA secure line authorization sequence. Quinn was alive. And he was safe. However, the feeling of relief Saul experienced, was very short lived. Because this also meant, it was all lost now.

Saul used the secure line service maybe a handful of times throughout his entire career. He knew, the agency kept pushing for more funding to expand the network, because it was essential in situations, where an operative in the field had to be contacted discretely and another way of communication was either unavailable or compromised. He also knew, that you could only request the use of a secure line from an active and operational station, manned by the agency personnel. There were only three stations like that in New York City. But that wasn’t the first thought, that jumped into Saul’s mind. To request such service, you also needed to be an active operative. If this was Quinn, that meant his cover was blown. One didn’t just walk into the CIA facility and introduced themselves as James Bond. If Quinn was using the secure line to contact him, that could only mean one thing: he walked in (for whatever reason), had his identity verified, and had his status restored to active. It wouldn’t be the first time (or the last, for that matter), when a covert operative, who was pronounced dead, would return to the base. Like so many other things, this would be just another day at the office.

Saul thought about all that, while listening to the tones: those were not random sounds, it was an authorization sequence coming from a switchboard somewhere. Even a burner phone could fall into the wrong hands. The line wouldn’t be very secure if it just assumed the right person answered the phone. Only trained operative, familiar with the protocol, would recognize the correct sequence and know what to do next. Saul waited for the long beep at the end of the sequence – his que to punch in his identification code. His hands were way to shaky. He put the phone on the table and rubbed his palms against each other to increase the blood flow. There could be no do-over in inputting your code: from the little Saul understood about how those things worked, he knew that the digits were analyzed in a sequential manner, as opposed to waiting for the entire code to be punched in to verify it. One wrong number and his phone would be flagged compromised and the secure line would go dead.

As soon as he pressed the last number, Saul heard a click and a woman’s voice came through, “Mr. Berenson, this is Selena Grey. I have Peter Quinn for you. Please, stand by, sir,” there was a hasty clicking of her heels against the floor and then a screeching of a heavy door being opened. Then her voice again, not speaking to him this time, “Here you go, sir,” there was a faint crackling, as the phone was handed over, then the door screeching again.

“Saul,” Peter said, and Saul removed his glasses, his back falling heavy against the back of a chair, and closed his eyes.

“What the _fuck_ is going on, Peter?” he asked, finally forcing himself to focus.

“I need you to find Carrie and get her to the Village station,” Peter disregarded his question. He was standing in a small windowless room and holding a heavy black phone to his ear.

“Give me the short version,” Saul wasn’t going to argue, but he needed a little more to go on.

“It’s Carrie, Saul. We gave them Carrie.”

Saul stopped mid-question. There was a long pause. Peter didn’t rush him; remembered all too well, how it felt, to have this realization hit you: it was like a tsunami, raging across the shore, consuming all on its way – his mind just crashed into an endless loop, swirling out of control, until it ran out of memory and was left blank, barren as a desert, frozen in time and space.

“I don’t understand,” Saul didn’t mean, that he failed to get the meaning of what was just said. Also, as he spoke those words, he thought, that in retrospect, if they ever survived this, ‘I don’t understand’ would be the perfect name for this operation. Because, there he was, having an answer, he had spent the last year looking for, and all it brought him was even more questions. “There has _got_ to be a mistake.”

“You’ll get no argument from me there,” Peter could make very little (if any) sense of it himself. “Unfortunately, the people, who think it’s her, are the kind that shoot first and ask questions later.”

Saul didn’t need to be reminded of _that_. He checked his private line: no messages or missed calls. _Where the fuck are you, Carrie_ , “What’s their plan?” he spoke out loud.

“I don’t know,” Peter rubbed his forehead and ran his hand through his hair. Remembering how he felt, running out of the safe house, was not something he cared for right now. “After I watched the President of the United-Fucking-States order a hit on Carrie and then the Secretary of Defense saying his men were about to pick up Franny from school, I had to make my _own_ plans.”

“My God,” Saul gasped. The black van, Jerry, four dead men, the cut tape on the floor, phone under the table, the door ajar… It all clicked, pieces falling into place, and at least part of what was happening started to make more sense; sadly, none of it made him feel any better. Blood drained from his face, as he tried to imagine what Peter went through, having his entire world collapse, rushing out, knowing he only had time to get to one of them. “Is she ok?”

“Yeah,” Peter couldn’t help, but smile again. “Probably sweeping the CIA safe house for listening devices as we speak.”

Saul had no trouble picturing that. He muffled a laugh, surprised, how Franny had this way about her, where even thinking about her could brighten his day. Even now, “That’s Franny, alright.”

Peter allowed himself a moment of blissful tenderness. Knowing, how short lived this feeling would be, he let it wash over him. And just like that, he wasn’t talking to his handler anymore, but to a man, who practically raised that little girl - his anchor of peace in a lifetime branded by war, “She’s so… fucking incredible, Saul,” he breathed a whisper.

“She is your biggest groupie, you know,” Saul’s smile grew wider. “Whatever happened in that basement five years ago, she _never_ let you go. You were always this guardian angel, she built up in her heart. And I wish I were a fly on the wall, when she saw you come out of nowhere to save her today.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Peter’s eyes reflected a soft glimmer of joy. “I think, I have a bruise on my chest shaped like a nine-year-old girl.”

Saul felt tired, all of a sudden. He wanted it to be over. He wanted to find Mira. And he wanted to finally let himself grow old and weary, surrounded by the people he loved. He knew it wouldn’t be possible for some time. But, for the first time in many years, it trumped the mission at hand. Maybe this _was_ that elusive _largest_ scale of things – life. Maybe world peace was not possible. But _this_ was. He thought about Peter, how he must have felt driving Franny to the safe house, knowing that he couldn’t risk harming her if he went looking for Carrie, wondering if by doing so he was condemning the woman he loved. He owed this man his life many times over. He was going to keep the promise he made. Because nothing else mattered right now.

He told Peter about his conversation with his contact in the NYPD and implored him to stay put. He was going to find Carrie. He didn’t mention, that he already tried. If it _was_ too late, he was going to allow this man a reprieve of ignorance.

Peter asked him to arrange an exit strategy for both Carrie and Franny. But great minds _did_ think alike, and by then Saul already had his private line cellphone in his hand, a messenger window open on a conversation with Otto Düring. _“Need your help again. NYC,”_ he typed quickly. _“Fueling the jet,”_ a reply came less than a minute later. Friends came in all shapes and colors, he thought, remembering the time he wouldn’t even shake Otto’s hand, a shadow of their peoples’ past creating a cement wall between them. But Otto was the one, who transferred Peter from Israel to France. Then to Germany. And, finally, to Switzerland. He paid for three surgeries on his left leg and for the rehabilitation stay in France. He was also the one arranging for him to be brought to the States. Never asking too many questions, never knowing the essence of the operation, this great humanitarian was willing to do all that just because he could. Having had seen many horrors in his life, Saul often thought that this world was beyond saving. But then he would meet someone like Otto. And he wouldn’t be so sure anymore.

“I will have Max joining you at the safe house,” Saul said, as they were saying goodbye. He felt an unexpected wave of thrill, thinking of the ‘gang’ working together again, after all those years. Maybe, he should have done this a long time ago. Maybe he should never have listened to Adal. “But you should know, he will have a lot of questions. He had a hard time after you… ‘died’”.

“Then I guess he’ll be happy to learn I didn’t,” Peter laughed.

“Yeah. It’s not _him_ learning that, that I am worried about,” Saul felt a cold shiver run down his spine. Carrie’s reaction was anyone’s guess.

“You and me both,” before they clicked off, Peter needed asked him one more thing. “Saul, did Adal know?”

Saul was under no illusion, as to what he meant and why he was asking. He wasn’t going to lie to him and he wasn’t going to stop him. Not this time. Unfortunately, he simply didn’t know. But he promised, he would find out.

And then he had to go. Because he remembered where Carrie was going to be in less than two hours.

______________________________

Max was still at his desk, when his phone rang. It was Saul. Max picked it up and told him he had no news about Carrie yet.

“That’s fine, it’s not why I am calling,” replied Saul. “I am getting so old, Max… I swear to you, one day I will end up forgetting my head when I leave the house in the morning. I think I left my umbrella in your office the last time I was there. Would you mind checking if it’s still there? It looks like it maybe raining in the afternoon.”

“Sure,” Max closed the phone, grabbed his car keys and headed to the conference room.

He told his assistance to reschedule his afternoon meetings and have Carrie call him when she came in. Then he walked down the stairs and unlocked a maintenance room. He closed the door behind him and moved the plastic closet to the side. He punched in his code and the safe opened. Inside it, there was a brand-new burner phone. Max unpacked it quickly, fished a nano-simcard from his wallet, and slid it in. As soon as the device powered up, he heard a notification sound. The message read, _“The Village. Apartment 3A.”_

An operative never quit.

___________________________________

As soon as Peter opened the door, he saw Franny quickly pick up an ice bag from the coffee table next to the couch, where she was sitting, and put it against the bruised side of her face.

“It’s supposed to be there _all the time_ ,” he tried to keep his expression stern, “not just when I am in the room.”

Franny wrinkled her nose, “It’s too cold. It makes my brain freeze.”

“Good. Maybe it will slow it down,” Peter laughed and went into the kitchen. He looked through the drawers and finally found a neatly folded linen towel. He sat next to her on the couch, took the ice pack from her hand and wrapped it in the fabric. “There you go. This should feel much better,” he softly pressed it back to her temple. Then he gently touched his fingers to her chin, carefully moving her head from side to side. He checked her ears for any fluid leaking, then her nose, then asked her to follow his finger, watching her pupils react as he brought the finger closer to her nose. Then he asked her to squint her eyes and to show her teeth, making sure there was no difference between both sides of her face. “I think you’ll live,” he concluded, finally.

“Were you checking me for signs of concussion?”

“Yeah. Clearly wasting my time,” his fingers still holding her chin, Peter lifted her head and softly pressed his lips to her forehead. “Your brain seems to be working just fine, even frozen. And _mine_ needs coffee.”

“So, what do we do now?” Franny folded her legs underneath her, watching him, as he was fitting a filter inside a coffee machine on the kitchen counter and looking for the coffee bag.

“I have coffee,” Peter answered loudly, his head inside the one of the kitchen cabinets, “when I find it. _You_ take a shower. Then briefing.”

From the corner of his eye he could see her face light up, as he spoke the word ‘briefing’. And then, “How am I going to take a shower if I don’t have any fresh clothes?”

It felt like someone just punched him in the gut. Right. He _really_ thought this through, didn’t he… the coffee he was pouring into the filter went all over the place. Peter could hear Franny giggling and he shot her a frustrated look, “Do I _look_ like a guy who thinks about things like that???” he wiped his hands on a kitchen towel and walked to the intercom in the living room.

“How can I help you, sir?” Selena’s voice came through the moment he pushed the button.

“Mmmmm… Miss Grey, do you have kids?” it sounded _way_ different in his head and the moment he actually heard it, he knew what would follow.

There was a long pause, “I’m sorry, sir?”

He removed the finger from the button and looked at Franny, as if saying, _yeah, I heard it too._

“ _Do I look like a guy who can talk to women?_ ” Franny mimicked him.

Peter just sighed, rolled his eyes and pushed the button again, “I am sorry. Let me rephrase that. We need a change of clothes for a girl… size…” he looked at Franny and saw that she was holding up eight fingers. _“That’s all?”_ he mouthed and then spoke into the microphone, “size eight.”

“No problem, sir, any color preference?” Selena asked.

Peter heard Franny frantically whisper “ _black or khaki_ ”. So, he turned to the speaker and very deliberately and very loudly said, “Pink. With lots of flowers,” and then he looked at Franny again, a hint of defiant smile in the corners of his eyes, “Mess with me again. I _dare_ you.”

She folded her arms on her chest, tilted her head to the side and the only thing Peter could read from the look on her face (narrowed eyes and pursed lips and all) was “ _challenge accepted_ ”.

“I _hate_ pink!”

Peter finished setting up the coffee maker and pressed the start button, “I _know_.”

“I am _so_ mad at you now!” she was still frowning, when he removed his shoes, fell into the sofa next to her and stretched his legs on the coffee table.

Peter turned his head to the side. Since she was still ‘mad’, he had to talk to her ear, “Just out of curiosity… how much mad is ‘so mad’? Say… on a scale from one to ten?”

“Twelve,” she muffled.

“Harsh,” Peter raised his arm, wrapped it around her waist, picked her up and pulled her into his embrace. “How about now?”

He could feel a smile forming on her face even without looking, “Seven.”

“I can live with a seven,” he breathed a laugh, kissing the top of her head.

Peter got his coffee and asked Franny if she cared for a cup of tea. She didn’t. So, a bottle of water it was. He sat next to her again, tucking his leg underneath himself, so that he could face her.

“So, pizza is on the way. Clothes are on the way. _Max_ is on the way. I guess, we have some time for that briefing now,” he took several sips from the coffee and set the mag on the table. She nodded. “That operation, that I told you about,” he started, trying to make sure he was making things as clear as possible, at the same time without disclosing the things he shouldn’t, “it’s Saul’s operation. He and some colleagues of his have been working on it for many years now. And it seems like they are getting closer to… their goal.”

“Are the people they are after the same people, who came to take me?” she asked, when he took a pause.

“Yes. But that’s not why they came after you. I mean it is… But not directly. It actually had to do with your mom,” he was looking for a way to explain it. “Do you know that it means to ‘burn’ an operative?”

“Expose their operation and compromise them?”

“Yes. Well, your mom was burnt. And the same people, who Saul is after, now want to hurt you and your mom.”

“Who burnt her?”

Peter took a deep breath and slowly let it out. There was no easy way to say it, “We did. Saul and I. We didn’t know it was her. We still don’t. We knew, that someone was working inside our operation and it was making it very dangerous to a lot of our contacts and assets. So, we gave those people information, that would help them find out who it was. For some reason, they decided it was your mom. I am sure it was a misunderstanding, but Saul is working very hard to find her and get her here, where it’s safe,” he was silent for a long while, his head to the window.

He felt her hand touch his arm, “It wasn’t your fault,” there was something different in her voice. Something he couldn’t quite place.

Peter gave her a sad smile, “In fact, if we didn’t burn her, sooner or later, they would find out anyway. I am just very glad it happened when we had them under surveillance and I could come and get you in time.”

He was drinking his coffee again, wondering what to tell her next, when she suddenly asked, “Is Saul going to get mom before her meeting with Dar Adal?”

Peter swallowed hard, the hot coffee burning his throat and sending him into a violent coughing spell. He set the mug on the table again and turned to her, “She is meeting with Dar Adal???”

Franny nodded, “Today. Two pm.”

“Do you know _why_?”

“He is the last one on her list. Number seventeen,” Franny watched the blood drain from Peter’s face, his pale blue eyes growing wide. He really didn’t know. “It wasn’t your fault, because it wasn’t a misunderstanding,” she added quietly.

Peter forced himself to focus and took another deep breath, “Franny, what do you know about it?”

“Everything,” she mumbled, starting to feel really scared now, seeing the terror setting on his face. “It’s all on the board in the attic room.”

“What else is on the board?”

Her eyes filled with tears now. His hands were shaking, when he tried to comfort her. And his palms felt cold against her skin.

“You,” she whispered, “your picture. She was getting those people for killing you.”


	11. The Gift

Saul noticed the surveillance as soon as he turned the corner. Two men were parked about a hundred yards from Carries apartment. He passed their car on his way and muttered a soundless “Fuck you”. They weren’t here for him. They were here for Carrie. And the fact, that they were still here could only mean one thing – they didn’t have her. And he wasn’t too late.

Whatever Carrie was doing right now, her phones still off, he knew now there was no mistake. She _was_ the lone gunman, and there _was_ a connection between those assassinations. When Quinn told him what he learnt from Franny, he expected him to be angry. After all, for the past five years he had done everything Saul asked of him. And Saul failed to do the only thing Quinn _ever_ asked for. His mind was working like an old VCR tape, rewinding and forwarding the recent events. It was touch and go with Carrie for a while, true. He was trying to pinpoint the things, that should have had been his clues. There were none. Except, maybe, this sudden change in her about three years ago. She was seeing a therapist at the time, so he happily attributed it to a long-awaited healing process. He knew now, he was wrong. Although, grasping, how someone could suddenly find peace by going on a killing spree, was absolutely backwards. Then again, Carrie _was_ backwards. Moving on was a vague term, he realized. People had to move on to _something_. Carrie moved on to _this_. And he failed to see it.

Saul didn’t worry about the people watching her house. Mostly, because he knew they expected him to show up. One of the most fundamental things he used to teach at The Farm, was, when you knew, you were being watched, you weren’t at a disadvantage. One of the most powerful tools, any covert operative could hope for, was the ability to hide in plain sight. If you knew, your phones were tapped, you would use it to manipulate the flow of the information to serve your own agenda. So, Saul called Carrie’s office and left a message for her with her assistant. He said, he needed the documents, she had been helping him with. And that she shouldn’t be surprised if by any chance she stopped by the house, because he was on his way to get them.

When inside, Saul didn’t waste time. He found the key to the locked room at the top of the stairs exactly where Franny said it would be.

He turned the key, walked in and closed the door behind him.

The white board was completely empty. Except for Quinn’s picture at the very top: a voiceless tribute to what’d been done, and what’d been lost. The room was tidied up, all the colored strings neatly rolled back and placed inside the carton box on the table. Next to that box, he saw a thick white paper folder. On top of it, there was an envelope with one word written on it in Carrie’s handwriting, _“Saul”_.

He wasn’t sure how exactly, but in that moment, he knew, that the three or four steps, separating him from that letter, were going to be the final ones in this journey. There was no doubt in his heart as to what he would find inside that folder. She knew. This whole time, she knew, what he was doing. And she was, like always, one step ahead of him.

He held the envelope in his hand for a long time, just sitting on that chair. A part of him didn’t want to open it. The finality of it reminded him of reading a very good book and having this feeling of grief, as it would come to an end, realizing you could never read it again and have the same thrill finding out what happened next. And the same part of him also knew, that he was going to get his wish and have all his questions answered. Except, now all he really wanted was to linger in this moment, just before the end. Because, while having unanswered questions was frustrating, it also meant there were many possible answers. And, as you came closer to the end, those possibilities were becoming fewer. Until there was only one left.

_“My dear Saul,_

_I am crying now. I haven’t cried in five years and now I don’t seem to be able to stop. So, you will have to forgive me, if this comes out all messed up. I know you will be able to sort through it. You always have._

_If you’re reading this, then you know what I did. And I bet you’re thinking that I am ‘the dumbest smartest person you have ever met’. You’re probably right._

_I am not going to tell you a story, about how I tried. Or how I failed. You were here, by my side, watching me struggle, having my back, holding my hand, even when I didn’t want you to. I want you to know, it’s not on you. I never planned to write this letter, I was going to take Franny and leave, hoping you would understand. Maybe not right away, but with time. I am not writing to you to find absolution or forgiveness: I am way past needing to find that in others. But in the end, I felt I needed to tell you. Even, if you will never agree with me. I just needed you to know._

_You told me five years ago, that ‘the worst happened and Quinn died’. The truth was, it wasn’t the worst. The worst thing was, that this fucked up world just kept spinning. The same world I watched you (and helped you) shape into what it is today._

_Someone said to me once, that, doing what we do, there can be no moral clarity. Now that I think about it, it was probably you. I wish I could tell you this great story about how I did this because I loved Quinn (which I did) or because I am haunted by the faces of people (our friends, colleagues and assets) we sacrificed for the greater good (which I am). But, the truth is, what I really couldn’t get past, were the faces and the names of the people we let live; knowing everything they did and will do. Just because they were more useful to us alive. We let the scumbags of this world walk free. And we helped them prosper. And we protected them. I will never forget, what Fara once told me, when you were in that room with Javadi. She said, that what he was doing to Iran was much worse, than what he ever did to us. She was a naïve pure soul, I thought, that had no place in the intelligence world. Because, we always knew better, right? We always saw the bigger picture. Because the moral clarity had no place in the GAME. Saul, the trail of bodies we left behind was much bigger, than any of us cares to admit. We didn’t just sacrifice people (including OUR people), we sacrificed countries, tens or even hundreds of thousands of people were being massacred and tortured by the monsters we kept in power._

_I was going to kill you in Pakistan. I don’t think, I ever told you that. You think, I couldn’t give the order to take out Haqqani, because you were down there. The truth is, I gave the order. Because you trained me well. And I knew, this was the ‘right’ thing to do. And I knew, you would want me to. It was Quinn, who saved you. As I was screaming at the drone operator to take the shot, he held me and he looked into my eyes, and he didn’t tell me how big a clusterfuck I would cause by taking out the former director of the CIA. He said ‘It is Saul down there. SAUL!” You see, much like Fara, Quinn had no place doing what we did. He believed nothing justified the damage we caused._

_He wrote in his letter, that he always felt that he was pulled back into darkness. He was wrong. Now, that I stand where he was, I am telling you, this place is as far from the darkness as it gets. It never occurred to me to wonder, how come in ten years, that he spent in Dar Adal’s group, conducting black ops, he never wanted to quit, and then, only several months after being thrown into OUR world, he could think of nothing else. There is a magnificent moral clarity, when you do what he did. It’s this simple black and white thing, where you always know, you’re on the right side. You know? No bigger picture. No greater good. Just you and the bad guys._

_I know, I can never make amends for the things we did. I also saw, that some great things came out of them. They weren’t all wrong choices. Not at all. What we did, had to be done._

_By now you know, that I have killed seventeen people. What you don’t know, is that I have never been more at peace about anything in my life. I can’t take it all back, you see. I can’t undo the choices I have made in the past. And I can’t un-learn the things I know. Maybe this won’t make any sense to you, but the only thing I could do, if I was ever going to find a way to live with what I have done in the past, was to stand on the right side of it. For once. And to NOT watch those monsters live on._

_This world will be just the same tomorrow, with all of them gone. It won’t be any safer or any better. But maybe… just maybe… *I* will._

_Saul, I know, what you were doing in the past five years. You probably think, I almost compromised the biggest operation in your life. You should know, by now, that I would never do that._

_In that folder is my way of making it up to you, for the many white hairs my quest has probably cost you. This is my gift to you._

_Finally, the last thing I wanted to tell you, is that I am not sorry. Not for now and not for then. I was one of the few lucky ones, who got to watch the history in the making. I got to stand on the shoulders of giants. Like you. I had the privilege of having you trust me. And the joy of having you in my life._

_It’s not been easy. But it’s been an honor._

_Goodbye, Saul._

_Carrie.”_

Saul was quiet for a long time, his eyes closed, his hand resting on her letter. He wasn’t supposed to find this today. Or maybe he was, but much later. He could only guess, she wasn’t going to take out Adal quietly. He was supposed to find out about it. And he was supposed to come here.

He knew, what he would find in that folder long before he opened it. He flipped through hundreds of documents, printed emails, photos, newspaper articles… It was all there – everything he needed to finish the operation. Carrie never compromised it – she saved it. She brought it all home.


	12. The Heart

By the time they had to go, Saul didn’t know, what to say anymore. In all honesty, it wasn’t like he had it all figured out, driving from Carrie’s house. But he was hoping to find the right words as the conversation would develop. It didn’t. Because Quinn said nothing. He had another apartment set up at the Village station, mostly for the fire gear, Saul was bringing with him from their old safe house, and for them to be able to discuss the operation without having Franny or Max around.

Saul gave him the short version. Then the long version. Then he gave him the letter, Carrie wrote. Peter just asked him to go spend some time with Franny. Whatever Carrie wrote, about not being drawn into darkness, he knew now she was wrong. Because, as he looked at Quinn’s face, he could see it setting in. And it sent chills down his spine. So, he left. They could all use some time to think. However little of it they had.

When he returned twenty minutes later or so, he found Quinn ready to go. He had all his gear gathered, his coat was on, and he was standing by the window, facing it, his arms folded on his chest, his back straight. Carrie’s letter was on a sill rail. Saul could see it was open.

“The car is ready,” he said quietly.

Peter nodded, barely noticeable, but he didn’t move.

Saul crossed the room and stood next to him, “We have to go, Peter. Adal won’t show. But we have to get to her before she leaves there.”

“Did you speak to Otto?” when Quinn spoke, eventually, his voice was low and hoarse, his gaze still fixed on something invisible beyond that window.

“Sure. The jet will be ready to go by the morning. It’s on schedule.”

Peter nodded again. There was a terrifying lack of expression in his pale blue eyes, wide open, just staring into something so dark and distant. His lips were pressed together and only an occasional muscle twitch around his clenched jaws showed any emotion.

“Do you have a place in mind?” Saul was desperately trying to move the conversation back into _this_ world.

“Where is Mira?” Quinn turned to face him and for a moment Saul wished he didn’t.

“Honestly… I don’t know.”

There was a brief smile. Not even a real smile, maybe just a shadow. It touched Peter’s face for a fleeting moment, infusing the faintest hint of life into his frozen features, and then was gone again, “Then you know what I have in mind.”

Saul let out a long sigh, “How about we talk about it, when we are back with Carrie?”

Peter shook his head and faced the window again, “I am not coming back with you,” he took the letter, folded it and handed it to Saul. “I will make sure you get her here safely. I will set up a new safe house. Contact me in the morning, when they are airborne. Then we finish this.”

There comes a day in every man’s life, when they must face the things they have done and take responsibility for the choices they have made. Saul knew, today was that day for Peter Quinn. And he also knew, there was nothing he could or _would_ say to change his mind. Convincing Carrie to flee right now would be difficult, he realized, but then again, she was planning to leave all along, so, it wasn’t impossible. But making her go, if she knew Quinn was alive, leaving him behind again, knowing, what he was doing, fearing losing him for real now… Saul knew, it would never happen. For her to live, Peter had to be dead. Now more so, than even five years ago.

“Then you go with her,” he managed, eventually, grasping at the straws of hope, while knowing all too well, that Quinn might be his asset, but he was not calling the shots anymore. Sometimes, he wondered, if he ever was. Peter was as good as they came. But he never did things he didn’t want to. He would never leave him. No matter how good a tale Saul would tell him about finishing this off with another asset.

He saw the answer in his eyes, when Quinn just gave him that _look_.

And Saul said nothing anymore, watching him put a rifle bag strap over his shoulder and picking up his gun.

As they walked pat the apartment 3A, Saul asked if Peter wasn’t going to say goodbye. They could spare another five minutes, he reminded him.

“I have,” Quinn replied in the same low emotionless voice and he pressed the elevator button.

“Franny knows you’re alive,” Saul reminded him, when the doors closed behind him.

Peter was quiet, just staring ahead. And Saul had to put the pieces together on his own again: he had said goodbye, and he had explained everything to her already. Long before he read the letter. Long before Saul read the letter. He guessed it happened somewhere between learning from her what her mother did and why, and calling to tell him how a spy with forty years of experience in the agency was outsmarted by a nine-year-old girl.

“That’s a lot to ask of a child, Peter,” he heard himself saying, meaning Franny having to keep the secret of him being alive.

He regretted those words as soon as they came out of his mouth. Quinn’s face was close now, his breath heavy, his jaws pressed hard together, his eyes, filled with so much pain now, that it was almost impossible to bear, burrowing into Saul’s, “Tell me again, what _fucking_ choice I had.”

The elevator doors opened and Saul watched Quinn walk away without another word. They would take separate cars, he knew. Peter was to follow him to the place, where Carrie was supposed to meet Dar Adal. Then he was to make sure they got safely to Saul’s car and follow them back to the Village station. That was the plan. As the gloom of the parking lot swallowed Peter’s figure, Saul felt a painful knot forming in his chest. He had seen people sacrificing their lives before. Somehow, nothing quite came close to watching this man sacrificing his heart. Again.

_______________________________________________

In the apartment 3A Franny had her ear pressed to the door. No matter how many times Max told her, that she shouldn’t do that. She could hear the door to the 3B open. No one spoke for a while. Saul had just left minutes ago, after having had stopped by to see her. She knew, they would have to be leaving soon. And now they were. As the steps grew closer to her, she noticed one of them slow down. _Just keep walking_ , she thought. And then she heard Saul’s voice ask, “Don’t you want to say goodbye?”. Franny could feel her hands form into fists. She pressed her lips to the door and whispered, “Leave him alone, Saul.” She didn’t understand, how, being all grown up, Saul couldn’t see, that Peter was hurting. She couldn’t hear Peter’s reply, if there was any, and then the elevator opened and closed again. She turned her face completely to the door now, her palms pressed against it, her forehead, too. And, before leaving her listening post, she mouthed, “Be safe.”

Then she walked back to the couch and sat down. The ice pack was still on the coffee table, wrapped in he linen kitchen towel. She picked it up and brought it against the bruised side of her face. It was all melted now and the water dripped down her neck. Max tried to give her a new one, she told him to _go away_. And she pressed the one in her hand harder into her temple. It hurt. Her eyes filled with tears again, but she took a deep breath and held them back. She wouldn’t cry now. She already had.

She didn’t cry, when Peter walked into the room about an hour ago and asked max to give them a minute. He sat next to her, very close, and he put his arms around her again. And she knew, something bad was happening. He told her, that he was going to need her help. Because something needed to be done and he wouldn’t be able to do it on his own. She already knew, they were going to have to go away, her mother and her, and she remembered how he promised, that when all of this would be over, he would come back for them and find them and never leave them again. So, she didn’t cry, when he told her about it again. She didn’t ask him, how, if he didn’t know where they were going, he was going to find them. She knew, he would. Because he promised. He didn’t baby her, he didn’t use words like ‘very bad people’ or ‘your mom had a very dangerous job’. He told her, he gave his word to his colleagues, who depended on him to see this mission through, and that he had to keep it. She understood. He told her, that, if they stayed in the US, he wouldn’t be able to protect them, not even if they remained here. And he told her, that her mom was very stubborn and if she knew, he was alive, she would want to help him and she would never agree to leave and go to a safe place. He said, this was going to be _their_ mission, his and Franny’s – protecting her mother.

She didn’t cry, when he said he was _so sorry_. And that, he simply didn’t know what else to do anymore. And how much he wished there was any other choice. And then he told her that it was ok, if she wanted to stop being brave for a while. Because, he said, he couldn’t be brave right now either. And then she did cry. She pulled up her legs, leaned into him, letting him wrap his arms around all of her, buried her face in his chest and she cried for a long time.

Franny felt Max sit down on the couch next to her and put his hand on the top of her head.

“They’ll be back soon, honey,” he breathed into her hair, kissing her temple, as he pulled her head onto his shoulder.

She put her arm around his chest and closed her eyes. _Not all of them._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know the last two are short ones. They kind of needed to be for their individual purposes.  
> Also, it might be some time before I can write the next one. So this is it for now.


	13. The Price

Saul turned the corner and looked at the street ahead of him. It was a covert operative nightmare, he thought, and Quinn’s voice, coming from his burner phone, confirmed it, “Fuck, Saul. Too many possible sightings on the building.”

“Where are you,” Saul knew better, than to look around.

“I can see you and the house. And I would feel a hell of a lot better, if you parked closer.”

On the left side of the street there was a line of tall buildings, some abandoned, some housing small businesses with barely any human traffic around them. Big windows, _many_ big windows. And any one of them would make a perfect spot for a sniper. The other side was quite the opposite – a residential area consisting primarily of small houses. Saul could see how that would make Quinn uncomfortable. Covering a place like that was impossible. You would need an army of backups. Peter was good, but he wasn’t _that_ good. He was just one man. And Saul knew, he would rather have his own feet on the ground, than having to watch someone else’s back in a place like this. He did consider driving up to the address they were given by Dar Adal, thinking how it would shorten their walk back to the car, but he wasn’t sure, how Carrie would react if she saw him coming. Even now, an element of surprise was questionable at best.

He remembered Adal telling him, that he was meeting Carrie in her office. This wasn’t _the_ office, he knew. Apparently, when you ran a business providing security solutions, you needed to have a place to meet with a more sensitive and paranoid clientele. According to Max, they had several such ‘offices’ all over the city. Saul couldn’t help think, as he looked around again, that this would make for a perfect location. There was barely a soul on the street in half a mile radius.

“Breathe, Peter,” he tried to sound reassuring, telling himself over and over that it was just a precaution anyway, because no one but Adal and themselves knew about Carrie being there or him coming to get her. No one _they_ were aware of, anyway.

“Just get her the _fuck_ out of there,” the line went dead.

Saul put his burner back in his pocket and headed for the house on the other side of the street.

What he didn’t tell Peter (what he was _never_ going to tell Peter), was that, while driving from the Village to Queens, he got another call from Nick O’Connor. And what he learnt from him was so horrific, that he almost turned around and walked away from all of this. Nick sent him some pictures, too, the kind of images, that Saul just knew would still haunt him many years from now. He had to stop for a minute, because they made him so sick, he was sure he was going to retch there and then. Carrie was right, he thought. The trail of bodies they left behind was something no one cared to look back at. Except, she was wrong, too. And this _was_ on him. And on _her_. Ironically enough, the only blameless person in this was the one, who actually pulled the trigger. And Saul would be damned if he ever let Peter know about it. This was one of those things, that take over your life, and no matter where you go and how hard you work, you could never put it behind you. And this was not Quinn’s cross to bear. But it _was_ Carrie’s. When they left the safe house, Saul wasn’t exactly sure, what he would say to make her leave with him. He was _now_.

Nick was about Saul’s age. And, being a homicide detective in New York City for the most part of his career, he had seen his fair share of horrors. One of the things Saul liked about him, was that, after all those years, he was still as dedicated officer of law enforcement, as they came. And he was no fool, either, because, after a brief pause, he asked Saul point blank if he was about to hit the brick wall of ‘it’s a matter of national security’ on this one. Saul hated himself, but he told him, that yes, he was: there were five bodies, dropped in Nick’s city, that would never get justice. And, Saul knew now, at least two of them _should_. Nick cursed under his breath and he called them all monsters. And he asked, never really expecting an answer, how Saul could sleep at night. The truth was, Saul couldn’t. There was nothing more he could or would say. When Nick ended the call, telling him to _just go to hell_ , he was quite sure he would never hear from him again. They were very much alike, him and Nick, and they both carried the burden of shattered lives, that would never get absolution. Saul’s was just a little bigger. And right then, it had become too big.

Saul was still deep in his thoughts, as he walked up the driveway to the front door of the ‘office’. Not as much, because of how troubling they were, but mostly because he needed to hold on to them right now – he needed this rage inside of him to get him through what was to come. This skill, being able to gather his anger into a fistful of blazing fire, was what helped him through countless interrogations in his years at the agency. It kept him focused. And it made him never lose sight of what he was doing and why. Allison Carr was right, when she said he was the angriest man she’d ever met. It was his ability to let this fury take over him at the right moment, that made him so good at what he did.

Saul rang the bell and it didn’t take long for the door to open. If there was a fleeting feeling of relief, as he saw Carrie’s frame block the entrance, it was very short lived. Eyeing her intently, he could see her entire body stiffen and the muscles of her face tensing up. Her eyes flashed with a hint of panic for just a brief moment, as she scanned the driveway and the surrounding area, before looking at the man in front of her again. Saul imagined the little gears in her head grinding against each other, desperately trying to figure out what just happened and what she should do or say next. The angry part of him drew great satisfaction from seeing her caught off guard like that.

“Saul,” his name dropped out of her mouth, wrapped in a nervous gasp.

He pushed past her and was now standing in a large living room. He heard the door slam shut behind him and didn’t even bother to turn around, “This is very… business,” his eyes quickly covered the surroundings: a black leather couch with two matching armchairs in the far corner to his right surrounded a heavy mahogany coffee table, a glassy surface of a massive desk next to the wall in front of him was completely empty, except for an open laptop, facing a large chair behind it. To his left there was a small kitchen.

He could feel Carrie’s eyes burning holes in the back of his head. She would have come to her senses by now, he knew, and he was ready for the cross examination.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing here, Saul?”

Saul turned around and gave her half a shrug with one shoulder, “You weren’t answering your phones.”

“No _shit_ ,” her hands flew apart, palms spread to the sides, “I was working.”

“Right,” he nodded slowly. “Working.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean? That I _wasn’t_ working?” she scoffed, her head turning half way and tilting to the side, both eyebrows raised.

Saul disregarded her outburst, making his way into the kitchen, “Max had no idea how to reach you,” he kept his voice casual, knowing how much it would annoy her. People used to be thrown out of balance, when they were frustrated. And he needed her as far from her comfort zone as possible.

“So?” her voice jumped couple more notches. “Not that it’s any of your business, but Max doesn’t have the security clearance to meet with some of my clients. And those people aren’t exactly the kind that feel comfortable when my phones go off in the middle of the meeting. Jesus, Saul! I thought _you_ were the last person in the world I would have to explain _that_ to!”

 _Nice comeback, Carrie_. Saul removed the pot from the coffee machine, it was full and smelled wonderful. He took one of the mugs from the counter and filled it almost to the top, “Got any milk?” he raised one eyebrow, facing her.

“The fridge door,” she barked scornfully, “and make it to go. You can keep the mug.”

Soul added just a drop of milk to his cup and took several long sips, before answering, “This is some coffee, I give you that.”

“I will send you an amazon link. Now, can we _please_ do… _whatever_ this is… later? I have another meeting in less than ten minutes.”

“Nah, I don’t think so,” Saul took another mug and waved it in her direction, “Join me?”

“No, thanks,” she stepped closer now, her palms propped on her hips, her blue eyes dark with a mixture of frustration and panic. A rogue strand of blond hair fell to the side of her face and she angrily tucked it behind her ear. “What do you mean _you don’t think so_???”

“I _mean_ your next hour is wide open. Because Dar Adal is not coming. So, I think I will stay and we will do _whatever this is_ now,” he watched her closely now, seeing the anger in her eyes being replaced with fear. He wasn’t going to wait for her to sort through hundreds of question marks flooding her mind, “It’s _over_ , Carrie. I guess sixteen is your lucky number.”

He could see her eyes open wide. It looked like she was going to say something, but then she wasn’t anymore. It never ceased to amaze him, how powerful and compelling this moment was. There was a part of him (a very dark part; one he didn’t care for very much) which always took real pleasure watching the people he was interrogating reach this point. There was something so honest and human in seeing the pretense and lies crumbling down around them, leaving them exposed, vulnerable and at his mercy. After this, there could be no deniability or bargaining – just facts. Facts and whatever he needed to do with them.

In a very strange and twisted way, Carrie knew exactly what he was thinking. She watched him do that too many times before to have any doubt as to what was going to happen next. It was Saul’s show now. No matter how many questions she had and how many things she wanted to say, they would all have to wait. He _knew_. And he didn’t come all the way here to tell her _that_. Her mind was fast at work, trying to figure a way out of this, while being acutely aware of the futility of such attempt. Saul could see her jaw tighten very briefly, tears shimmering in her blue eyes, as she turned her face to the side and fought to blink them away. There was a familiar twitch of her chin, a light tremble of her lower lip, and, no matter how hard she tried to regain control of her betraying emotions, the corners of her mouth curved down. There was another part of him, the part that loved this woman for so many years, that whaled in agony, seeing her breaking and falling apart like this. But, Saul knew, that part would need to wait. And, as much as he wanted to put his arms around her and make it all better, he forced himself to stand his ground.

“So…” he spoke after a long pause, giving her sufficient time to come to terms with the situation. “Shall we?” he gestured to her desk, inviting her to follow him there. “Or would you prefer the couch?”

“Saul…” she started, her voice betraying her and words chocking miserably in her throat. She was trying to mouth something, but no sound came out.

“What’s that, Carrie?” he had no mercy.

“You don’t understand…” she managed, finally, clearing her throat and swallowing hard.

Saul closed his eyes, shook his head from side to side and muffled a bitter laugh, “Maybe I don’t. Maybe I do. The only thing I know for sure is that I would have loved to be given a chance to try. Sounds like it would’ve been fair, all things considered… don’t you think?”

“No, it wouldn’t have been fair. To any of you,” Carrie stepped closer, tears streaming down her face now. “It wasn’t your burden to bear, Saul.”

His head tilted to the side, he laughed again, “But I _did_ bear it, Carrie, didn’t I? I just didn’t know what it was. Not until it was too late. And now, good people… innocent people… are dead and I will have to bear that too.”

Carrie scoffed in frustration, drawing a deep breath, her hand flying up and pointing an index finger to the door, “None of those motherfuckers was good _or_ innocent!”

“Right,” Saul shook his head again and Carrie thought how annoying this passive-aggressive routine of his was at times. He crossed the living room and lowered himself into an armchair, inviting her to sit on the couch next to him. “C’mon, Carrie. How about you sit down and let me tell you a story.”

“I am good where I am, thanks…”

He interrupted her, his voice, a low growl, sending cold shivers down her spine and spiking goosebumps along the length of her arms, “Sit the _fuck_ down, Carrie.”

“Or what?” she put her hands on her hips.

“Or, so help me god, I will nail your ass to this couch,” his black eyes seemed even darker, than usual.

Carrie muttered a curse, but obeyed, nevertheless, “Ok… _fine_.”

Saul looked at the defying expression on her face, thinking how this woman could be plunging from a cliff, while still trying to find a way to claw herself out of it. Then he took his phone out of the pocket and navigated to the gallery. He flipped through some older pictures and found the one he needed.

“Here,” he handed her the phone, watching the blood drain from her face, as she let out a sharp gasp, her hand flying to her mouth to muffle a moan of horror, her eyes squeezing shut for a moment, before she opened them to look at lifeless features of a man, lying on what looked like coroner’s table, with a dark bullet wound in the middle of his forehead. Saul leaned forward, his elbows burrowing into his knees, “Jerry Langdon _was_ a good man… for once,” his voice was soft now, “He loved his wife, Ellen (your best friend), he loved his baby girls, he loved Franny like she was his own…”

“What happened?” Carrie interrupted, breathing out a hollow sob.

“My asset killed him,” Saul’s voice echoed through the darkest corners of her mind, bringing more questions, than it answered. But she knew, there was more to the story. So, swallowing tears, she waited. “See, this morning, Jerry, the family man that he was, woke up in his beautiful home in New Jersey, had breakfast with Ellen and his little girls, then he kissed them goodbye and he drove to the city. To work. He met with Max there. They had coffee together. Max told him about Franny wanting to go to the memorial. Jerry was worried about her, but he also thought it was a good idea, seeing how she always adored Quinn. He was considering going too. Did you know that? He never did before, because he used to babysit Franny when we’d meet up. And he never knew Quinn. But he cared enough about _you_ to want to go today, to pay respect to a man, who mattered to you so much,” Saul took a deep breath, recalling his conversation with both Max and Nick. “He was about to go out to meet with one of your clients, when he got this image in a message from an unidentified number,” he leaned in and swiped his finger across the screen. Another picture appeared and he could see Carrie’s hand fall from her mouth, as she sank even deeper into the couch. It was one of little girl, blue eyes opened wide, red from tears, tiny blonde curls tinted with blood, a piece of silver tape sealing her mouth and half of her porcelain face. “He was told, that his three-year-old baby girl Sarah will never come home again, unless he did what he was told. And what he was told was to go to Franny’s school and pick her up… and bring her to the van parked nearby,” he waited for those words to dig deep enough into Carrie’s burning mind. And then he continued, “You see… my asset killed him, because he had no way of knowing Jerry was blameless in this. He was running surveillance for me, when he heard of a plan to kidnap your daughter. So, he did the only thing he could - he rushed to her rescue and he barely got to her in time. And he killed everyone in that van. Including Jerry.”

“Jesus, Saul…” Carrie was clasping the phone so hard her knuckles turned white and her nailbeds were the dark shade of purple. She was shaking now, “Is Franny…” she couldn’t finish the sentence, her voice breaking with a heart-wrenching cry.

“She is fine,” Saul nodded, his voice a bare whisper now, as his own tears muffled the sound of his voice. “I guess she is traumatized as hell, but the last time I saw her, she was holding it together like the brave little person you raised,” he paused, before continuing. “You see… you got your little girl back. But Carrie…” Saul leaned in again and flipped to the next picture, “Ellen _didn’t_ ,” he heard Carrie scream and he saw her turn away. He didn’t blame her. And he wasn’t angry anymore, allowing this unthinkable tragedy to take over him and to drag him into the abyss. “This is little Sarah _now_ ,” he forced himself to speak again. “About twenty-five minutes ago they pulled her body from Hudson with a bullet in the back of her head.”

Saul let those words hang in the air, surrounded by the silence, which enveloped them both. Neither of them spoke for the longest time. Finally, moving slowly, he pulled his phone from Carrie’s hand, put it away and took out a folded piece of paper from inside of his jacket. He put it on the coffee table between them. From the look on her face he could say she recognized it. So, he allowed himself to speak again.

“You said in your letter, that this wasn’t on me. But it _is_ now. Because two weeks ago I made a decision to burn an assassin, who was getting dangerously close to compromising everything I have worked for in the last five years. It was _me_ , who gave you to them. _I_ was the reason they went after Franny. Of course, I had no idea it was you, because… how did you put that? Ah… you said, ‘ _you had the privilege of having my trust’_ … Maybe, if _I_ had the privilege of having _yours_ , Jerry and Sarah would be alive,” he leaned his back against the back of the armchair and closed his eyes for a second. “Sixteen people are dead, Carrie, two people are in jail for leaking the agency documents, your best friend is going to bury half of her family, and there is a homicide detective out there, who will never be able to bring the people who did this to justice, because I had to shut him down with a ‘national security’ slap on the face… tell me... how is that _redemption_ of yours looking _now_? And how do you see a man like Quinn _ever_ wanting those things to be done in his name?” when she didn’t answer, looking completely broken apart, he added. “This letter you wrote… the one I was supposed to find when you’re long gone… it’s not a goodbye, Carrie. It’s a _FUCK YOU_ in my face _and_ in Max’s. You thought you would go play God for a while, then you will up and leave with Franny, taking yourselves out of our lives. And just like that, we would understand… because… hey, you gave me _a gift_ ,” he opened his briefcase, removed the thick white folder and slammed it against the surface of the coffee table. “You said, you wanted to make it up to me. So, let me tell you… you _are_ the ‘dumbest smartest person I have ever met’, Carrie Mathison. If you ever thought, that saving a mission, _any mission_ , would make up for not having you and Franny in my life anymore... or for watching a woman I loved like my own daughter treat me like a heartless fuck you think I am.”

He could see Carrie’s jaws tightening as his last words hung in the air between them.

 “Saul, I _never_ …” she started, still grasping for straws, still clawing her way out.

But he interrupted her, his face close to hers now, his breath hot on her skin, his eyes drilling into hers, “Shut the _fuck_ up, Carrie,” he gnarled, barely keeping himself from grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her, until she stopped. “You don’t say a _fucking word_ after this. You don’t get to put a _fucking thing_ into perspective. You just… _don’t_! The only thing you do now is get your things, walk with me to the car, while my asset watches our backs, then you let me take you to Franny and you do what you were planning to do all along: go away and never come back. A jet will be here in the morning, and you will tell the pilot where you want to go after you lift off. You don’t tell me or Max or your sister where you’ll be. And then you live the rest of her life making it up to the only person who really matters – your daughter. And if I _ever_ catch so much as a _whisper_ of you surfacing _anywhere_ … I swear to _GOD_ , Carrie… I will pick up that phone and I will call that detective and I will give him someone, who’s good for _all of this_.”

________________________________

The car wasn’t parked too far from the ‘office’ house, and they walked fast, but Carrie felt like it was the longest journey of her life. By the time she locked the door, she was completely numb: body and soul. She often wondered if this was a defense mechanism of sorts, a safe switch - this ability of her mind to turn itself off, when the pain would reach a point, after which nothing registered anymore. She felt the world around her spinning out of control. She was walking, trying to keep up with Saul, but it felt like she was somewhere else, watching herself from afar, helpless and lost. Carrie hated that feeling – one thing she could never handle was not being connected to what was happening to her. So, she forced her mind back. And she forced herself to think.

She thought about Ellen. And Jerry. And how she often envied this life they had. Seven years into their marriage, they were still in love. She remembered Ellen’s eyes, and how they would light up with pure delight every time she spoke about Jerry. And she forced herself to imagine those eyes grow dark today, as her world came crushing down on her. She wondered if Ellen would ever learn the truth. And it made her sick to her stomach. She couldn’t bring herself to think of little Sarah, the horror of the last hours of her life. And she couldn’t begin to imagine what Jerry felt. Did he know? Did he hope, that he would actually see Sarah again, if he did what was asked of him?

And then she thought about Saul. And about the pain in his voice, when he unleashed all his wrath unto her. She knew, he was right. It didn’t matter, if she meant for him to feel this way, it didn’t matter if she lost perspective, the truth was – she didn’t trust him enough to confide in him. She didn’t allow him to help her, when he so desperately tried to. Maybe he wouldn’t have agreed with her, maybe he would have tried to talk her out of it, maybe they would have fought, but he _would_ understand. And he wouldn’t have to live the rest of his life bearing the burden, that was supposed to be hers alone. And after all that, he was still here, saving her, getting her to Franny, letting her go, burning his contacts in the NYPD, so that she could have another lease of life.

And then she thought about Quinn. And, for the first time in five years, she hoped there was no heaven. And she prayed, he wasn’t watching. Even with him gone, she couldn’t bear the thought of him seeing her right now, knowing how royally she screwed up… again. And she felt great shame, remembering what Saul told her about Quinn and how a man like him would never want his memory being reduced to _this_. For the first time she was _glad_ he was gone. And it was _that_ thought, blending into everything else that’d just happened, everything she had done, all the suffering she ended up causing, making it even more senseless and tragic, that brought the pain she was craving crushing into her heart.

And then she heard Saul cry out to her. They were almost at the car, when he screamed “Carrie, get down!!!” and leaped forward, slamming himself into her and pushing her forward. She heard a gunshot shattering the air and tearing through it with a sharp whistle. There was a violent jolt, as Saul’s body, covering her from behind, was thrown further and knocked her off her feet. She went down hard, feeling him collapse on top of her. She didn’t have to look at the warm fluid dripping on her arm to understand, what happened. Carrie rolled to the side, freeing herself from underneath Saul, only to see him lying flat on the pavement, his face down, a red stain growing larger on his back and blood bubbling, as it mixed with air, from a tear beneath his right shoulder blade.

She lifted herself only slightly on her hands, trying to get a better look of where the shot came from, as her view was blocked by the back door of Saul’s car. The moment the top of her head reached the bottom of the window, another shot pierced the air and this time she heard a sound of breaking glass and ducked back, covering her head, when the shards exploded in all directions above it.

Carrie found her bag, crouching behind the car door, keeping her head as low as she could, while acutely aware, that the car is not armored, but desperately hoping for at least a temporary cover. Her gun was in still in there. She took it out and removed the silencer – she wasn’t a very good shot when it came to long distances, and she definitely wasn’t going to try it with a long barrel. Carrie looked at Saul again. Instinctively, her hand found its way across his back to his shoulder and finally to his carotid artery. She could feel a faint pulse.

She started moving towards the back of the car, gripping her gun with both hands, still crouching and staying as low as she could. She was almost at the edge of the bumper, ready to raise her head and aim, when she heard a loud voice behind her back.

“Carrie, NO!” as those words echoed in the air, she felt a hand on her elbow, someone’s fingers locking hard around her arm and jerking her back.

She spun around, following the momentum, and was airborne for a second, before seeing the pavement next to Saul and realizing she was about to crush into it. But she never did.

There are moments in our lives that last forever. As if we feel torn from the event horizon, we’ve been circling, and thrown into the heart of its singularity. And then the time slows down, until it stops. And we feel this moment stretching into an endless string.

Carrie never felt herself hit the pavement. In a flash of light, the world came shuttering down and she just kept falling, trapped in this moment. And she had all the time in the world to realize, that she knew this voice. She would have recognized it if it was rising above a roaring crowd. And she heard those very words so many times before, being yanked out of harm’s way.

But then she was on the pavement again, someone pinning her to the ground, preventing her from getting up. She tried to lift her head and look up. And then the air around her parted to give way for two more words. The same words, that haunted her dreams and her waking hours to this day. The last words he ever said to her. The same words that she ended up obeying and living to regret forever. His hand came softly on the back of her head, keeping it below the car window, and a man, she buried five years ago, said “STAY DOWN.”


	14. The Eye of the Storm

Still pinned to the ground, Carrie managed to lift her head just enough to be able to turn it half way to the side. From the corner of her eye she saw an arm extended above her, a hand firmly gripping a gun, moving slowly to adjust the aim. She followed it with her eyes and saw a man running on the roof of the tall building right across the street. There was no way in _hell_ she could’ve take that shot. She could barely make out a dark silhouette against the background of the bright afternoon sky. Trapped beneath the man on top of her, she could feel the recoil aftershock ripple through his body, never moving it an inch, as he fired – a single shot, a perfect shot, one, she knew, only a handful of people could make from a handgun, at this distance, on a moving target. She watched the man on the roof jerk awkwardly, his head swinging to the side, following the bullet’s path – a head shot, she realized with a sharp gasp, giving away a stir of mind dulling astonishment: ok, maybe a _handful_ was a stretch. One. There was only _one_ man capable of beating those odds.

She felt Quinn’s weight lift off of her in one smooth motion. In a fraction of a second, he was next to her, helping her up to a sitting position, warning her to keep her head law. Then he turned his attention to Saul, moving quickly, assessing the situation and inspecting the wound. She was still contemplating taking the next breath, when he rolled Saul to his back and quickly surveyed his front.

When in the field, trapped in a potentially life-threatening situation, Carrie knew, an operative had basically three viable options: rely on your instincts, fall back to your training, and, if you absolutely need to analyze, make it short, concrete, immediate and decisive. She remembered Max trying to explain it to Franny once, using a multicore processor analogy (seriously, whatever made it easier for _Max_ ). He said, that in situations like this, when you needed to concentrate on your actions, your brain used a master switch, shutting down the multithreading function and it couldn’t think of anything else, pulling all the work on the main thread. Now, the main thread (according to _Max_ ), was a place, where the program interacted with an outside world, and the processes had to happen one after another. So, if you lingered, or flinched, or allowed a non-essential function to run its course, you were in danger of taking up valuable time, needed for a vital response. Carrie didn’t understand a word he was saying back then. Hell, if she understood the conjunctions of his sentences, all the time being horrified by the thought, that _Franny_ seemed to get it. Saul just called it _“A geek’s perspective on a covert operation dynamic”_. Weirdly enough, it made sense to her now. Because, whatever her ‘main thread’ was, it was in one _fucking_ state of suspension, and whatever processes were running on it, she had no control over them. Her brain was registering the events in front of her eyes, but there was no available place for her to produce any valid output.

The world around her was still a blur, a dark canvas of distorted smudges, when suddenly she realized, that it was starting to shape into something substantial, as if a part of this turmoil came into focus and there, mere inches from here, she saw his face: his jaws clenched, the blue in his eyes barely visible around the widened pupils. He was saying something, and, like from afar, his voice slowly crept its way into her mind, becoming louder and more coherent with every passing second. And as it did, she noticed how his face was shaking, jumping up and down, only to realize that it was her own head, that was shaking, as he gripped her shoulders and tried to jolt her back into reality.

“… focus. I need you to focus,” he pleaded, his hand sliding from her shoulder to get ahold of her face and level her eyes with his. “Carrie, we need to go. Help me get Saul into the back seat.”

Carrie blinked. She must’ve had had her eyes open for minutes now, because her own eyelids felt like a sand paper against her corneas. She swallowed hard and nodded, still not being able to trust her voice. Her hands barely moved, as she grabbed Saul’s legs and lifted with every bit of strength she had in her, helping Quinn move him into the car and lay him on the back seat.

“Get in with him and stay low,” Peter held the door open, waiting for her to follow.

Carrie started moving towards it, but then stopped. She turned around and grabbed the sleeve of his shirt, unable to breathe again, “Quinn…” she mouthed, her eyes filling with tears now, every muscle of her face collapsing into a painful twitch. Whatever else she wanted to say scrambled into a heart wrenching sob.

Peter could feel his own heart tearing to shreds in his chest. She wasn’t breathing, her eyes were losing focus again. He could feel her giving into the grief, breaking down and falling apart. And in that moment, he knew that he wasn’t far from following her down that road.

“Fuck!” he screamed, forcing himself to hold it together. His hand covering the side of her face, he pressed his fingers to the back of her neck and tilted her head upwards. She might never forgive him, but if he didn’t get them all out of here right now, none of them would get a chance to find out. “Carrie, look at me… LOOK AT ME!” he waited a second for the haze in her eyes to dissipate. “It’s me. I am here. And I’ve got you. _Both_ of you. But there might be another shooter out there and we’re sitting _fucking_ ducks. If we don’t move right now, we’ll all be dead. For _fucking_ real. So, snap the _fuck_ out of it and get your ass into that car. NOW.”

The imaginary band, stretching Carrie’s perception, snapped back and the air came rushing into her lungs. She nodded, muttering a barely audible, “Ok,” and she let him help her into the backseat next to Saul.

Quinn stepped on the gas with everything he had even before the door to the driver side was fully closed. Carrie held Saul’s head, as the momentum pushed them both against the back of the car seat, and saw his eyes open at the jolt. He winced in pain and cried out.

“Hey,” she put her palm on his face and tried to smile, carefully sitting him back.

Saul looked at her, still disoriented, then he looked at Peter, “Fuck,” was the only thing he could come up with to describe this turn of events.

“No shit, Saul,” Carrie removed her jacket, folded it several times, then lifted his right shoulder and stuck it between his back and the back of the car seat. He screamed in pain again, but she held him still. “Just lean against it. It will put the pressure on the wound. And _don’t_ _move_.”

Saul’s breathing was uneven and labored, beads of cold sweat forming on his face, “Peter,” he waited for Quinn to level his eyes to the rear-view mirror. “Go to the Village station. We can call an ambulance from there. She is not safe out here.”

Peter knew he was right. And yet, the words of his CIA interviewer from all those years ago came back to echo through his mind _“You had a choice to make in that car. You chose her.”_

“Carrie,” he turned around just briefly, “Tell me what you see back there.”

Carrie felt Saul’s back and the car seat next to him. They were both soaking with blood. Saul’s lips were turning blue and his breathing was becoming more and more intermittent.

“He needs to go to the hospital, Quinn. _Now_.”

That did it. He took a sharp U-turn, “Do you have your phone on you? Can you guide me to Mount Sinai?”

“Peter, for God’s sake…” Saul started.

“Shut the _fuck_ up, Saul,” Peter scorned, waiting for Carrie to give him directions.

“At the end of this street turn right. Then three blocks down and left. Then you should see it.”

Carrie turned her phone off again, removed the sim card and threw it out of the window. Saul’s head was on its side now, facing her.

“Assets,” he muttered, trying to smile, and his voice broke into a cough. “They never do what they are told anymore…”

“ _Stop talking_ ,” Carrie found his handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his face. “Besides, if you wanted someone who would always do what they are told… _boy_ , you picked the wrong asset,” she smiled at him, keeping the bravest face she could possibly master at that moment, propped her head on the elbow, and softly touched her palm to the side of his face. “Hey… you’re going to be _fine_. _I_ am going to be fine. We are _all_ going to be just fine. But when this is all over…” she leaned closer to him and burrowed her eyes into his, “We are going to have that talk again, you and I, about _trust_ and shit.”

Saul closed his eyes for a moment and nodded just barely, “Fair point,” his dark eyes flashed with regret and concern. “I am… so sorry. I should have told you a long time ago.”

Carrie pressed her lips to his forehead, “Yeah, you should have. Now stop talking like you’re not gonna make it. Actually, you should stop talking, pe…” she started saying ‘period’, but noticed that he wasn’t listening anymore. His eyes closed and he was unconscious again.

“We’re three minutes out,” she heard Quinn’s voice, answering the question she never had to ask.

She saw him watching her, his eyes fixed on her face in the rear-view mirror, and she nodded. He didn’t say anything, keeping his attention on the road ahead of him now. Carrie felt her body go limp and she just let it. The broken window let in violent gusts of cold air. It was starting to rain. The storm was coming and she could feel it closing in from everywhere. Her hair was blowing in the wind. She didn’t move it away, when it fell on her face. So many things happened, and yet, five years later, she was still in a back seat of a car, people were dead or injured because of a mess of her own making, her life was in danger and this storm was threatening to claim all that mattered to her in this world. And in the middle of all this, leaping out of nowhere to save her life, shaking her into pulling it together, picking up the pieces and driving them so safety, there was Quinn. Yet, the strangest part of it was, that, no matter how mind bending, it just didn’t feel wrong. She looked at him, his eyes on the street ahead, his mind focused and cold, his every move polished with effortless precision, and she knew she didn’t care about the answers anymore. Maybe he _was_ dead. Maybe he _was_ watching over her. Because at this point she wouldn’t put it past Quinn, if he told her he had to fight his way back from hell to come and get her.

________________________________

Carrie waited inside the emergency department, and no pleading from Quinn or the medical personnel, would make her leave. She didn’t move from the doors to the trauma room, not until they wheeled the stretcher with Saul on it, a breathing tube in his mouth, three other tubes coming out of his right chest. The physician in charge asked if she was family. She said there was no family and she was all he had. It felt like a punch in the gut, realizing how true those words were. Saul was going to be fine, he told her, putting a hand on her shoulder. He would need a surgery, but in the end, it wasn’t as bad as it looked. He asked if she cared for a glass of water and if she wanted one of the nurses to show her to the waiting room on the floor where the operating suits were located. Carrie muttered a “No, thank you,” and tried to give him a smile for his kindness. He asked if there was someone to stay with her or to driver her home. The surgery could take hours, he reminded her.

She knew, she had to go now. There was nothing more, she could possibly do, but wait. Saul risked his life, getting her to safety, and she wasn’t going to get herself killed by staying here one minute longer than she needed to. Besides, there _was_ someone who could stay with her. _And_ drive her home. Well, maybe not _home_ , but the ER doctor really didn’t need to know _that_. She thanked him again and walked away.

She could see Quinn standing on the other side of the ambulance bay. He was smoking, his eyes scanning the surrounding area. She couldn’t see his face, but she could swear it relaxed for a brief moment, when he spotted her just outside the main entrance to the emergency room. Carrie started towards him, but something made her stop. Because, by then, he turned around, threw his coat over his shoulder, letting it hang on the tip of his finger, and, just like that, walked up to her. She watched him do that so many times before. It was her _dream_. The same dream she never wanted to be awaken from. The same dream, that would leave her so incandescently happy, as she would lie in bed, refusing to open her eyes, determined to never let go of this feeling. The same dream that would crush her as soon as she would inevitably face another day without him. His back straight, his face shaven, his left arm and leg undamaged, he just walked up to her, and he smiled, just like he did in her dream, this faint shadow of a smile, that would touch the wrinkles around his eyes and just the corners of his lips, and yet envelop her in such tenderness, her heart would skip a beat. And, just like in her dream, that smile didn’t seem at all weird. Because, just like in her dream, she knew now, he was never gone.

She never remembered, what happened next in that dream. She wasn’t sure there ever was anything past that moment. But there was now. Quinn didn’t reach her, suddenly aware of a cigarette in his hand, not wanting to smoke next to the entrance. He waited for her. And, as she came closer, he took his coat, opened it and put it over her shoulders. Some things never changed, she thought, as they walked side by side to where the covered part of the ambulance bay ended. She could see his eyes searching her face for clues of any news about Saul. She stood next to him, watching the rain violently hitting the ground just mere feet ahead. The storm was here. And yet, somehow, it wasn’t.

“They just took him to surgery. The ER doc said he is going to be just fine.”

Quinn turned his face away from her. She could see the muscles around his cheek bones tensing up. When he took another draw from a cigarette, his hand was shaking so violently, he could barely hold it to his lips. He let his head fall back, eyes wide open, glistening with tears, and he let out a long puff of smoke.

“Fuck me,” he managed in the end, his voice so low, that Carrie pretty much had to infer from context. “That tough old bird gave me the scare of my life.”

The cigarette butt was burnt almost up to the filter. Seeing how Quinn was in no shape to notice, Carrie carefully removed it from between his fingers and threw it away, “The _tough old bird_ was lucky he knows how to choose his assets,” she elbowed him, smiling.

Peter looked at his hands, covered in dried blood, his clothes, her clothes, “Not lucky enough.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Quinn,” Carrie could never stand him beating himself up, let alone today. “ _No one_ could see that motherfucker coming. No one, that I know of, could have taken that _shot_. You were there when it mattered. You were there to pick him up and get him here. _Despite_ what he wanted. And you were there to shake _me_ out of my fucking stupor. And believe me… at that moment,” she scoffed, waving her hand, “ _that_ took skill.”

His eyes flashed with intense pain, when he turned to her, and Carrie felt her heart sink: she carried his face in her memory so vividly for all those years, and yet she forgot how expressive it could be. And there he was, this extraordinarily brave man, this human fortress, suddenly looking like a guilty child.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, barely able to look at her, as the memory of her face on that road rippled through his mind. “Short of picking you up and throwing you into that car… I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Pfffffff... given the state I was in… _believe_ me,” Carrie moved her head to follow his elusive glance, until she forced him to stop and look at her. When she spoke again, she made sure her expression and her tone backed up the seriousness of her words, “ _either_ of those choices would have been just fine.”

Quinn nodded very slightly, still looking uneasy, “The thing is… It _wasn’t_ fine. _I_ wasn’t fine. And I almost fell apart right there and then.”

Carrie scoffed again, “Yeah, well… the point is – you _didn’t_.”

Peter looked at her, standing there, her arms crossed on her chest, her face – a mix of concern and that mind-boggling stubbornness and determination to get her point across, and suddenly, against all common sense, wildly inappropriately, he felt a burst of laughter building in his chest. It was out before he could stop it, and he could see one of Carrie’s eyebrows jump up, her head tilting to the side and her hands slide down to rest on her hips.

“What so fucking funny?”

He let out a long puff of air, pointedly looking around, “This, Carrie. Fucking _this_ is funny. _Us_. We haven’t seen each other in five years and here we are again, standing in the rain, waiting for a replacement car, heading to yet another safe house... and arguing about… well, _everything_.”

Carrie’s thoughts travelled back to how she felt no later than an hour beforehand, in the back of that car, feeling like nothing ever changed. And maybe it didn’t. Because, maybe it really shouldn’t. At least some things shouldn’t.

“I guess it’s better than the alternative,” she shrugged, leveling her eyes to meet his.

“The alternative being?”

“Me beating the living crap out of you… for _once_ ,” she was serious now, trying to figure out a way to explain why none of it just didn’t matter anymore. “I mean, I keep thinking, what I _should_ be doing, Quinn. What I should be _feeling_. I mean, you’ve met _me_ … right? You _know_ , this is _not_ how I handle things. Fuck, you’ve seen me go ballistic over someone missing a briefing. Let alone _five years_ ,” she crossed her arms on her chest again and turned to watch the rain curtain ahead of them, just staring into an invisible point. “When I think about it, I realize… that I should be screaming at you, asking where the fuck you’ve been for the past five years and how you, of all people, could put me through this… through losing you, through waking up every day eaten alive by guilt and haunted by regret of… all the things I never said… or done,” her chin began to tremble, bit Carrie fought the tears back and kept her voice steady, “But here I am. And I look at you and somehow none of it matters anymore. And all I can think about it how fucking stupid you are for beating yourself up over screaming at me. So, yeah… we argue. Because making you stop this self-loathing crap of yours… it _matters_. Everything else…” she shrugged again, pulling up one shoulder, “doesn’t.”

Quinn didn’t quite know what to say. It was too overwhelming and too close to what he was thinking himself, “So… we are _not_ going to talk about where I’ve been,” he muttered, half a question, half a statement.

“Oh, I think I have a pretty good idea by now,” she turned to him, suddenly smiling. “Actually, about two years ago I almost ran into you. I think I missed you by twenty minutes or so,” she waited for him to put the pieces together, “Milano? McClendon? Rings a bell?”

“Shit, Carrie!” he remembered now, arriving at the restaurant to get one of Saul’s assets to a safe house for a debriefing. He never walked in, seeing how the entrance was blocked by two ambulances and three police vehicles. And he was there just in time to see McClendon’s body wheeled out on a stretcher.

“Last month, when I finally had enough to put together the magnitude of Saul’s operation, I found out one of the first people he turned was the General. And that his _asset_ was supposed to meet him in that restaurant,” she paused and her expression turned serious again. “Quinn… I _do_ want to talk. But not about the operation,” she motioned to his left arm. “I want to know about _this_. _You_. I want to know about how _this_ happened… and about the people who were there to help you through it. Because you said it’s like the last five years never happened. Well, let me tell you… It really feels like the last _six_ years never happened.”

Quinn smiled back, nodding, “Deal. Tonight. Safe house. We’ll have tea and we’ll talk. I am buying.”

“Gee, thanks, Quinn. Black ops always this generous with their dates?”

“Hey, I am still on a government paycheck. Unlike some flourishing private sector security consultants. You want a real date – _you’re_ buying.”

They didn’t speak for a while after that, just standing there, shoulders almost touching, watching the rain. And Quinn thought about Lauren. And about how much he wanted to tell Carrie all about it. But mostly, about that elusive right thing, that he was supposed to say at the right moment. And how every time he thought he had it, the moment would pass, and the conversation would stir in a different direction. And then there would be another right thing he would think of, only to have that, too, snatched away along with a moment it was meant for. He remembered Carrie’s words about what it did to her, thinking that she lost him forever. And he remembered her face on that road, frozen with grief. And, unescapably, he knew now - there was only one thing, that was really left to say.

“Carrie,” he grunted, his voice breaking with hoarseness. “I am so sorry.”

When she raised her head, and turned to meet his eyes, he could see her nodding, ever so slightly, but her eyes were telling him, he wasn’t going to have the last word on this.

“Quinn,” she finally said, measuring her tone and making sure every word was there to show him just how little it mattered now. “You saved my daughter. You saved Saul. You saved me. God, you saved me so many times I fucking lost count a long time ago. Apart from Franny, you were… and _are…_ the single most important thing I have in my life. And yet, here you are, still being a fucking moron, thinking I waited five years for an apology.”

 _No regrets_ , Carrie thought, falling back to this mantra, that she kept repeating over and over all those years - _no regrets_. She lived her life long enough haunted by all the things left unsaid and all the roads left untraveled. Tomorrow was far beyond her grasp. Hell, she didn’t know what would happen an hour from now. But whatever the future held for her, for all of them, if she lived to remember it, she would have no regrets.

There was an emptiness in her chest as soon as she spoke the last words. There wasn’t really much more she could say. It was all there. All she felt. All she was. The reason for all she did.

Five years was a long time, she knew. People got over their feelings and they moved on in much less than that. She still didn’t know, why Quinn never came back. Did he find another life? Did he have a family now? It sure _felt_ like nothing changed. But then again, some things _did_. He wasn’t a broken veteran anymore. Someone was there to heal him. To rebuild him. Someone was there to do what she failed to.

They never _were_ on the same page. All those half-truths, all those unsaid words, they ended up tearing them apart and eventually breaking them both. The time, when he wanted to have a life with her was almost eight years ago. She was in a whole different place then. Even when she eventually called him back, was she anywhere near the place he was? Sure, she was willing to try. She cared about him deeply. But he was gone. And after that, there was only pain. And heartbreak. And many attempts to have another life. Until he was gone for good. And she was left to pick up the shards of her heart, realizing, for the first time, that she could have had it all with this man. But she was too late. So, whatever happened after this, she wasn’t going to bear _that_ burden.

She felt his hand on the small of her back and she flinched violently, her entire body stiffening in a sudden spasm, jolted out of her thoughts. Startled, she lost whatever control she had of her emotions, and the tears just came. She turned away, suddenly embarrassed, not able to face him right now.

“Carrie,” she heard him say her name. And his voice was so low and soft, that she felt her heart tremble at its sound. His hand moved across her back, his palm coming to rest at the curve of her waist. “Carrie,” he repeated, still waiting for her to look at him. And when she did, she could see, he knew exactly what she was thinking. “Come here,” he breathed, a soft plea, his hand pushing against her side very lightly, waiting for her to follow. She did. And before she knew it, she was in his arms, “Come here,” he repeated, whispering into her hair now, pulling her even closer, as she leaned into him, molding the entire length of her body into his, her arms wrapping around his waist, her hands moving aimlessly across his back.

He covered her head with his palm, leaning it against his shoulder, and she buried her face in the curve of his neck, breathing him in.

“Quinn,” she mouthed, completely enveloped by him, so overwhelmed by how breathtakingly sweet and tender was this simple act of intimacy, that all she could manage was his name.

She felt his arm, firmly wrapped around her shoulders, move away and the cold air replacing it made her ache inside. _Don’t go,_ she wanted to scream, _put it back_. But she didn’t get a chance to. His hand skimmed across her shoulder and she let out a sharp gasp, suddenly feeling the tips of his fingers on the back of her neck. Her head arched back, craving more, and, as her eyes flickered open, she could see him smiling, caught by surprise at the intensity of her reaction. He watched her face now, slowly tracing his fingertips up the side of her neck, until he reached the base of her skull. He let his fingers wander into the thick silk of her hair, completely entangled, finally having her entire head on his palm. He didn’t move her, just sliding his thumb across her face, from the jawline to her cheekbone, waiting for her to follow the motion of his arm and bring her face in front of his.

There was a depth to his eyes that she could drown in. And there was a magic in his touch, in his smile, that was hers alone.

“Hi,” he said simply, his face mere inches from hers.

“Hi,” she smiled, letting the muscles of her neck relax and allowing her head to fall deeper into his hand.

“Peter Quinn,” he continued, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And Carrie laughed, an image popping into her head, of him walking up to her in a safe house, surrounded by surveillance equipment, in his khaki shirt, sleeves rolled up, extending his hand. Ten years later and he was still the ‘guy running the things’ and she was still amazed at how surprising was every moment with him.

She laughed and it felt like she was a little girl again. Last time she remembered herself laughing like this, careless and free, was such a long time ago. She never wanted this moment to end, even now, knowing where it was going, she just wanted to exist here, in his arms, two people, misplaced in time and space, in a bubble of peace, in the eye of the storm around them.

“Carrie Mathison,” she replied, forcing a serious face, before smiling again.

He leaned just an inch closer, “So, Carrie Mathison, what _were_ you waiting for the last five years?”

Her hand on his back clasped a wrinkle of his shirt and tagged on it, as she gave him a teasing smile, “I will tell you later, _Peter Quinn_.”

“Fuck, Carrie, play along,” he tried to make an angry face and failed so miserably, that she laughed even harder.

“Aww… Black ops mode won’t turn on?” Carrie held him tighter, is it was even possible.

Peter tried again, bringing his eyebrows together, and immediately breaking into a smile, “I think you fucking broke it.”

Carrie brought her hand to his face and spread her fingers along the side of it, “I will tell you _later_ , because, for the most part, it’s wildly inappropriate and strictly illegal in public places,” she whispered, her smile so wide and warm, that, despite heavy rain, Quinn could swear the sun came up.

“All of it?” he asked, smiling back, waiting for her to come up with the next line.

She didn’t. Instead, she slowly moved her hand from his back, creeping along the side of his body, across his chest, until it came to rest on his shoulder. She leaned on it, pushing herself up, throwing both arms around his neck now. His coat slipped off of her, and he let it fall to the ground, before enveloping her waist and doing what she was waiting for, lifting her up, until her feet barely touched the ground and her face was right in front of his. Carrie left one arm lying across his shoulders, and she bent the other, so her hand came behind his head, sliding her fingers into his hair. She never said a thing, her face so close to his now, she could feel his breath on her skin.

“ _Not_ all of it?” he raised one eyebrow.

“No,” she smiled, her eyes hazy, and she ran her hand through his hair again, slightly pushing his head forward, “not all of it,” she whispered, pressing her lips to his temple, and tracing them from there, placing soft kisses in the corner of his eye, on the side of his nose, in the dimple of his cheek, breathing him in. He smelled of smoke and maybe a hint of a day-old cologne or an aftershave. And she couldn’t get enough of it. It was hers now, all of it, even the saltiness of his skin on her lips.

She stopped before reaching his mouth and she pulled away just enough to see his eyes. She waited for him, not smiling anymore, granting him this last step, “Quinn,” she breathed with a soft moan, and, as he leaned in, finally erasing that last inch between them, he could taste his name on her lips, losing himself to their warmth.

And just like that, the world around them fell away.

There was a longing to that kiss, a longing of two hearts, broken by time and distance, finally mending in this moment. There was a tenderness to it, too, slow and patient, caring and soft, a resonating contrast to a lifetime of raging war. And there was a comfort to it, like no words could ever bring. And then, there was a fire, it came out of nowhere and Carrie felt it building up in him, the flames growing hotter and higher with every touch. And the more intense it got, the more she craved it, giving herself to its fury, aching for more, knowing she could walk right into it and never be burnt.


	15. A True Glimmer

The storm was on. The sky didn’t just shed rain – it wept. Even the windshield, slamming the wipers back and forth like there was no tomorrow, couldn’t keep the road ahead visible enough. Carrie could see Quinn’s eyes narrowing from time to time, doing their damnedest to see through the merciless waterfall bearing down on the city. The drive from Queens to the Village was a pain even when the traffic was bearable, let alone the rush hour. Not like there was _ever_ a bearable traffic in New York. And they hardly moved a mile in the last ten minutes.

The storm was everywhere. It leaked into Carrie’s thoughts with abusive strokes of cold wind, throwing her back against the wall of everything that’d happened. She sank into it, fighting for air, but, inevitably, being sucked in even deeper. Her thoughts swirled and she felt like she was spiraling down a bottomless drain, trying to grasp at any coherent piece of information to make a tiny bit of sense of what was happening to her. The chaos in her mind was like a combustible mixture of gases, just waiting for a spark to go off. She would start thinking about Saul, their last conversation, and something would shut down inside of her. And, like an eraser over the white board, her mind would clear and jump to the ambulance bay, to Quinn’s face so close to hers, to his eyes, telling her without words, that she was wrong, and there was never another life, and that, somehow, half a world apart, against all odds, they ended up in the same place after all. And she wanted to hang on to that thought, to that feeling, but then her heart would sink again, images floating to the surface, images of Jerry and Sarah and Ellen and Saul. And she could see herself standing at the edge of a gap in the earth beneath her feet, an unfathomable chasm, growing larger between them, and she would wonder if she could ever allow herself to be happy, if she could ever look at Quinn without wondering how he can possibly love someone, who caused as much pain and destruction as she did, everywhere she went, and if she would ever be able to have a life, that’s not taken over by her past. And she thought, that Quinn deserved better. Much better.

But then she would be in his arms again, pressed against his heart, in the moment, when nothing else seemed to matter the tiniest bit, nothing, except his eyes, telling her, that, whatever else she thought she was, whatever she did and however hard it ended up breaking her, she was first and foremost the most precious thing he ever held. And she remembered, how the world, everything that’d happened, everything that Saul told her, just disappeared, dissolving into the blue depth of those eyes, breaking against the wall of those strong arms around her, until there was nothing left, and she remembered thinking, how measuring what was lost against what was found was something she could never do now - not when what was found was _him_.

She was wondering if he knew. About Jerry and Sarah. And about everything else she did. But every time she thought about it, she remembered the way he touched her, the way he held her, and all she wanted was that feeling back. Right now. But there they were, driving away from that spot, where, against all common sense, her heart became whole again, and the further away they got, the more it hurt. He was sitting right next to her - not _his_ first choice, obviously, after the most heated argument in all the years they had known each other, when he ordered her to the back seat behind his back, and she yelled that _never, not for as long as she lived, she was going to sit there again, letting him be her human shield._ She remembered his face wincing in pain, when he realized, why, and he just stopped arguing, taking her into his arms again, kissing her and saying he was _so sorry_ , and just asking her to _please go down if he needed her to_.

She was drowning, trying to break her way back to the surface, grasping at straws of that blissful moment, yet feeling it slip away, all of it: his smell, his taste, the warmth of his smile, the intimacy of his touch. Whatever else she was supposed to be thinking about right now was fading into the emptiness between her arms.

The touch of his hand on hers startled her. His fingers grazed the inner side of her palm before finding their way in between her own and lacing through them. He softly ran his thumb against the back of her hand.

“Carrie,” he waited for her to peel her face from the passenger side window and look at him. “Stop it,” he said then, tightening his grip.

She looked at him, surprised, but not really. He had always been in her head. Not just today. She used to hate knowing that she was an open book to him, when he wanted her to be. And, even now, it made her fidget uneasily.

“You don’t know,” she found herself blurting, averting her eyes again, “you don’t understand…”

“Maybe,” he answered simply after considering her vague statement for a short while. “Or maybe I just don’t care to anymore.”

Carrie scoffed softly, shaking her head, looking at the drops of condensation forming on the window, “You would, if you knew.”

“You don’t know that,” he insisted, his voice so calm it was starting to irritate her.

She tried to free her hand from his, suddenly feeling a powerful surge to flee. He didn’t let her.

“Let go of me,” she demanded.

“No,” Quinn tore his eyes from the road and turned to face her, “No,” he repeated, looking deep into her eyes, as if telling her it wasn’t just her hand he was talking about anymore. “I am done with this shit, Carrie. And I am fucking done watching _you_ letting it take over your life, too. I am just _done_. So, if you want to talk about it, now or whenever, I am right here. If you don’t, I don’t care. I am sick and tired of measuring my life and my happiness against the larger scale of things. I don’t care if it’s selfish of me. Whatever else happened, or will happen, I will be content for the rest of my life knowing that you and Franny are safe. And, Carrie, if you don’t see it, I guess, I’ll just have to make you. Because I am not letting go of you. Not now, not _ever_.”

Tears came so fast, that Carrie let out a loud sob, as the air came rushing into her throat, “Jesus, Quinn,” she muttered, her voice breaking, her hand squeezing his so hard her knuckles turned white.

“We’ve done it _all_ , Carrie,” he continued. “We’ve made every possible mistake, every fucked-up choice to tear us both apart. Someone once told me, that I should never assume that you were happy and that you moved on, and that I should find out for myself. And I never did. I just took Saul’s word for it. And I ended up causing you so much pain. You said, you looked at me and it didn’t matter anymore. If you can look at me and see past the choice I made, which hurt you to the point of driving you to do what you did, you _better_ give me the _same_ fucking benefit of the doubt, when I tell you, that I don’t give a fucking shit about anything, except being able to have you in my life again. And you can fight me on this. You can scoff and scorn and you can beat the living crap out of me. You will find out, that whatever is left standing, will still believe that. And will still hold you and kiss you until you fucking _stop_.” Quinn paused, turned his head again, just to find her features soften, her eyes still watery, but the pain fading away. “Carrie,” he reached over to her face and smudged a tear mark on her cheek with his thumb, “I am not standing by anymore, watching you or me or anyone else (or _anything_ else, for that matter) making a priority out of a damn thing over our lives. We both have done enough to each other and to others to shadow every day of whatever is left of them. But I’ve _held_ you, Carrie. And I’ve seen your eyes, when I did, and I’ve seen your smile. And I will fight for it. Even if it means fighting _you_.”

“Quinn…” Carrie couldn’t breathe anymore, she couldn’t take one more second of it, so completely overwhelmed and overpowered, and, for the first time in her life feeling, that she didn’t want (or need) to be in control anymore. “Quinn, stop… just stop and…” she felt herself pulling on his arm.

He met her half way and covered her mouth with his, deep and passionate, snatching her breath away, sealing everything he’d just said into a burning promise. And then he pulled away and kissed her again, softly this time, his lips caressing hers, his hand holding the side of her face.

“I love you… so much,” Carrie murmured between those little gentle kisses, loosing herself, finally letting go and not being afraid, giving up the last shreds of control into his hands, coming to trust this man with her heart like she trusted him with her life. “I won’t fight you, Quinn… Ever…”

She felt his mouth curve into a smile and she kissed the corner of his lips, “Good,” Quinn whispered, his smile a little naughty all of a sudden, “because to tell you the truth, I wasn’t quite sure how to pull it off.”

Carrie laughed, shaking her head, “Fuck _you_ , Quinn,” she kissed him again.

He was grinning, when she pulled away, “That a promise?”

Carrie rolled her eyes and sighed, before leaning in and dropping a butterfly soft kiss next to his ear, whispering, “Yeah, you fucking child, it’s a promise.”

The car behind them honked loudly and angrily. And Carrie learnt firsthand, what happened when you emotionally overloaded a government trained assassin, with access to lethal weapons and a reaction time of a feline on a hunt, while they are wired as hell to begin with, after a day like that. Quinn jerked and his eyes grew wide for a second, shooting a menacing glance at the rear-view mirror, “Fuck you too, asshole!” he grunted through his teeth. He was about to step on a gas, to move yet another several inches in the endless line of traffic ahead of them, when the second honk, sharp and frustrated, sliced through the air.

Bullets left barrels slower, than he managed to simultaneously reach for his gun, unbuckle himself and jerk the driver’s door a crack open.

“Oh my God,” Carrie came to her senses just in time to grab his arm with both of hers, pulling him back. “Quinn! QUINN!!! STOP!” she didn’t remember when she had the rime to remove her own safety belt, so she could reach him. “Hey… hey…” she leaned across him and shut the door. “ _Jesus_ , Quinn… it’s ok. It’s ok. Just move the car. Move the car…” she kept repeating until he did, still keeping his gaze in the rear-view mirror. Panting, she held him, both arms around his shoulders. “It’s ok… It’s ok...” she kept whispering, stroking his left arm. “It’s just the rush hour. He just wants to get home,” her voice was soothing.

“Well, he is not going to get home any time soon, is he?” his voice jumped, as he made another menacing gesture against the rear-view mirror. “Not by fucking honking because he is in a rush to move another fifteen fucking inches!”

“I know,” she put her hand on the side of his head and pulled herself up to place a soft kiss on his jawline. “I know. It’s my fault, Quinn. I am sorry. We shouldn’t have talked about it. Not right now. Not when you’re so wired. Not after everything that’s happened today. You’re ok. We’re ok.”

Carrie could feel his body relax in her arms, like a suddenly deflated balloon. The cars ahead of them moved another ‘fifteen fucking inches’ and he followed, still breathing heavily. He turned to her, looking like a guilty child again, and he wrapped his arm around her waist, his eyes squeezing shut, and he let his head sink into the curve of her neck, his hand sliding up her back, burying deep into her hair. “Jesus, Carrie, this day fucked me up good.”

“Gee, Quinn, you _think_?”, she smiled, stroking his arm, still shaking herself. “You know, honking in traffic _is_ illegal, but it’s _not_ punishable by death.”

He pulled away, a little grumpy, looking down and at his lap, and putting the gun back, “I wasn’t gonna shoot him,” he grumbled, avoiding her eyes, moving uneasily, as they both fastened their seatbelts. “I’m sorry, Carrie.”

“Don’t,” she took his hand into hers again and entwined her fingers with his. “You’ve lived through more shit today than most people do in a lifetime. Besides,” she let out a short laugh, followed by a cheerful snorting noise, “after six years in New York traffic, I can’t say I wouldn’t enjoy you actually shooting one of those assholes.”

He sighed and rolled his eyes, “I will _never_ live to hear the end of it, will I?”

“Oh,” Carrie laughed, making that snorting sound again, “not a fat chance, Quinn.”

“ _Fuck_ , I am bad at this,” he let his head fall back, keeping the eyes on the road, waiting for the car ahead of them to move.

It was Carrie’s time to read his mind. “Hey, Quinn?” she gently stroked his arm, as he turned to look at her, giving him the faintest most beautiful smile he had ever seen. “You’re _great_ at this. And I plan to put all that hotheadedness of yours to a _very_ good use.”

He felt his eyes well up and for once he let it happen. His hand creeped from her palm, up the length of her arm, to her shoulder. He grazed the tips of his fingers against the skin of her throat and the side of her neck, smiling as she let out a soft moan, leaning into his touch.

“Carrie,” he whispered, so completely overwhelmed, feeling her lips pressing into the inside of his palm. What he wouldn’t give right now for all of it to be over. “Fucking _stuck_ in a car,” he slammed the bottom of his left palm into the stirring wheel.

“Shhh… government property, Quinn,” Carrie laughed, watching his chest rise and fall heavily, her eyes tearing with anticipation of having him in her arms again, wondering if there would ever come a time, when she wouldn’t feel like a teenager, waves of heat rolling over her just from holding his hand. “Let’s just talk, Quinn, ok?” she tucked her left leg underneath her and turned towards him, he head falling to the side against the headrest of her seat. “I highly doubt we will get to have that tea date after all,” she gave him a teasing smile.

He remembered the promise he made, “Carrie, that’s _not_ what we need to talk about right now. Not what _you_ need to talk about,” his eyes flashed with concern.

“We’ll talk about that too. In a little bit. I just feel like putting the elephant in the room on hold for now. Can we?”

He smiled and shook his head, powerless to say no to her, _again_ , “Anything for you, Carrie,” he mumbled, like always. “Ask away. You wanted to know about my rehabilitation, right?”

The traffic started to move a little faster as they approached the tunnel. Carrie watched him handle the stirring wheel with his left hand alone, just as effortlessly as he used to do it with his right one.

“Quinn, this is… unbelievable,” she muttered.

He saw her motioning with her eyes to his left hand on the wheel, “Oh…” he lifted it and wiggled his fingers. Sometimes, he couldn’t believe it himself, even four years after leaving Switzerland. “ _This_ is all Matt.”

“Matt,” Carrie repeated, a half question in her tone, getting more comfortable.

“Matt Rollins. The royal pain in my ass,” Quinn smiled, his blue eyes almost dreamy, digging into what was probably the most amazing memory of his entire life. “And the best fucking physiotherapist and trainer… ever, I think. Stubborn as a… I mean, take my stubbornness, add yours, add Franny’s… multiply by about a thousand… you get Matt. Man, did he kick my butt, Carrie. I just got there, after three major thoracic surgeries, three surgeries on my left leg, a short rehabilitation stay and peroneal nerve stimulations, and the first order of business was – three run sessions a week, starting from half a mile, increasing by quarter of a mile every two weeks. I was still wearing the ankle foot orthosis and the guy was riding me like I was a fucking Olympic future of the nation.”

“I like him already,” Carrie patted his shoulder, waiting for him to continue.

“Matt had both his legs amputated in Iraq, in 2008. Special forces. We started talking one day and we kind of connected. Every Friday we would go to this bar in the village nearby. And he would make me hold the beer mug with my left hand. Carrie, I thought I was gonna fucking bang the guy’s brains out. With my _right_ one. And I tried, too… once. We ended up starting a bar fight.”

Carrie had no trouble picturing _that_ , “Who won?”

“The bartender,” Quinn laughed, “Kicked both our drunken butts to the curb. Lilly had to come pick us up in the middle of the night and drive us to the compound. And, _man_ , did she bust both our balls. Yelling at us the whole time, calling us fucking jarheads. Not that I remember much of it, seeing how we were both wasted and beat up.”

“Lilly… as in Matt’s wife?”

“Nah. Matt’s not married. At least wasn’t at the time. Lilly as in ‘the-fucking-loss-to-the-intelligence-community-sixty-year-old-commando-grandma-knowing-everyone-and-knowing-all- _about_ -everyone-chocolate-addicted gatekeeper’.”

Before he knew it, he was telling her about Lilly, their talks, her daughters, their husbands, her twin granddaughters, all the zillion kinds of chocolate she made him try, how she arranged the meeting with Saul, and, eventually, how she was the one to see him off, when it was time for him to leave. And how three weeks later, on a plane to Algeria, he was folding his coat, noticing how it felt sticky, and finding a plate of the finest swiss milk chocolate in the inner pocket. And a chocolate covered note sticking out of it _“You think I didn’t know you hated the dark one?”_

Carrie listened intently, asking a short question here and there, and she wanted close her eyes to try and imagine the places or the people he described, but she wasn’t able to tear herself from his face - she _never_ saw him so inspired, so completely taken by the memory of something, that clearly meant so much to him. And she didn’t _need_ to close her eyes, because this man, the same man, who she barely heard putting together more than three words to form a sentence, was telling her a story in such detail and passion, that, when he was done, she felt like she _was_ there. She didn’t comment on that, though. She knew, she would later. For now, she just wanted to sit in this car, slowly moving with the afternoon traffic, and not think about anything, but the story about people, whose care and dedication turned a broken veteran back into the same magnificent, confident and fearless man, he was before Berlin.

“Is this place here? In the States?” she asked, when he was finished telling her about Lilly.

“Switzerland. It’s a private American rehabilitation facility, mostly for special forces veterans, I think. Very high security clearance for everyone who worked there. I don’t even think it has a name. I think officially it was affiliated with one of the local rehabilitation centers. But it was nowhere near one,” he paused for a moment. “Carrie, you can’t imagine that place. You have to see it to imagine it,” his hand traveled to the side of her face, “I’ve got to take you and Franny there one day. Shit, Lilly will have the time of her life having us over.”

Carrie leaned her face into his palm, feeling the familiar tingling of tears in her throat, her eyes turning moist again, as she heard what he really was saying, this ‘us’, while making vacation plans for the three of them. She might have had not known, what tomorrow held, but, somehow, she had no trouble imaging them backpacking through western Europe one day.  She fought the tears back, not being able to bear breaking this peaceful moment by crying, just wanting him to go on.

 “I _love_ it when you make vacation plans, Quinn,” she laughed, instead. “And it’s a _deal_.”

“Carrie, seriously, it’s _fuck_ knows where, _deep_ in the mountains, surrounded by the woods so thick, you could take fifty steps and get lost. The only populated place in the area around was a village, about five miles out. I used to go for my runs in those woods. I changed my paths periodically, just to get to see more of it. But there was a place, I just kept going back to. I would run for about three miles to the east, and come to an opening. And there was a lake there. Carrie, the water, especially in the morning, I swear to you, it looked like liquid silver - _completely_ still and _so_ damn clear, you could fucking see the sky at the very bottom of it. I would strip down to my boxers and just go in. the water was freezing… and I mean… _freezing_ , Carrie. The moment I’d hit the surface, it felt like being stabbed with hundreds of knives at the same time. But after the first shock… _God_ , Carrie, I don’t think I was _ever_ more alive than just floating on my back, looking at the sky, letting my body cool after the run.”

When he looked at her again, her eyes were foggy with dreaminess, “I wish I were there with you,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

Quinn slid his hand across her shoulders, and, gently pushing against her upper arm, pulled her closer. He looked deep into her eyes, waiting for her to get lost in the blue ocean of his own, because he really needed her to have no doubt about what he was going to say, “You _were_ , Carrie.”

They both fell into silence. Traffic moving slowly in the tunnel, they just sat in that car, his hand still in hers, not really looking for the right words anymore, just letting the time pass between them, flowing easily, second chased by another second, then minutes, blending into the past. But it wasn’t just the past anymore, they both knew. It was this first memory in all the time they had known each other, that would never be shadowed with pain or regret.

“Oh my God… Max!” Carrie exclaimed suddenly, as her eyes finally managed to concentrate and found themselves staring at the dashboard clock. “Fuck!” she reached for her bag to take out the phone, only to realize she already remove the sim card and threw it away. “Oh, _shit_!”

“Hey, it’s ok,” Quinn laughed, pulling her hand out of the bag, and sitting her back up. “It’s ok, Carrie. Max is at the safe house with Franny. Waiting for us to arrive, so he can go to the hospital to be with Saul.”

“You spoke to him,” she wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement.

“Yes. When I waited for you outside the ER. He has a burner on him, if you want to call him,” he reached for his phone and offered it to her.

She shook her head, “No, that’s not what I mean. Max knows you’re alive?”

“He didn’t know before, if that’s what you’re asking. But as of about three hours ago, he does.”

“Poor Max,” Carrie smiled, but it was a sad smile now. She looked at Quinn. “How did he take it?”

Peter laughed, remembering the moment very vividly, “It was, actually, very sweet,” he admitted. “Saul told me, Max was on his way over. I instructed the coordinating officer to let him right through. So, there we are, Franny and I, digging into the pizza we ordered earlier, when the door opens and we both see Max standing there. And I think _none_ of us said a word for maybe five minutes, if not more. I don’t think I even swallowed. And then Max…” he lifted his hand, palm forward, fingers slightly bent, as if inviting her to imagine the scene, “shifts uncomfortably, and goes _‘should_ _I cancel the memorial dinner?’”_

Carrie grinned, but the smile died on her lips soon enough, “He had _such_ a hard time, Quinn.”

“I know,” he nodded, “Saul told me. And we did talk about it a bit, Max and I.”

“I think, the day of your funeral, was the day he buried Fara all over again. He drank a lot. For a long while after that. And every time he talked about you, it always came to the memory of you going after Haqqani after he killed Fara. I don’t think that part of him ever forgave me for stopping you. In his head, you went after him to avenge her or something…”

“I did,” Quinn interrupted her, not leaving a place for a doubt. His eyes were dark with grief and pain, when he turned to face her. “I knew many people, who died that day. And there were many reasons for me to go after Haqqani. And for the record, there is a part of _me_ , to this day, that isn’t ok with you stopping me, _either_. And it was seeing Max sitting on the floor, holding the body of the woman, he loved, his hands dripping with her blood…” he stopped for a second, taking several deep breaths to fight back the rage, that this memory always brought him. “That beautiful, brave, gentle girl… and Max… so broken… Something just went off in me.”

Carrie wanted to say, that _she_ wasn’t sorry. And that, given the chance, she would have done it all over again. But, for once, she didn’t need Quinn to tell her, that this wasn’t about _her_. Or him. Or Haqqani.

“It meant the world to Max, what you did,” she squeezed his hand.

“Max deserved it and more, Carrie. He is one of the most decent people I’ve ever met.”

“If you only knew how mutual that sentiment is,” Carrie laughed, “Oh, God, I will never forget those memorial dinners of his… Quinn, Max is a _disaster_ , that’s what he is. But so adorable… And in the end, no matter how ridiculous, he always managed to make us all cry,” she let the memory carry her back. “The first time, a year after you…” she stopped.

“Died,” Quinn continued, smiling. He brought her hand to his chest and pressed it against his heart, so she could feel it beating. “I am here, Carrie. So just tell me the story. Not many people get to hear _that_.”

She rolled her eyes, but nodded, “Fine… _died_. Anyway, it was the first time we all met: Saul, Max, Virgil and me. He arranged for us to go to this Irish pub… Quinn, awful music, terrible service, we had this little table in one of the so-called VIP rooms. So, Max had this picture of you on the table… in a _frame_ , a whiskey glass in front of it with a finger of Jack Daniels in it. Or was it a Black Johnny Walker? I have no idea anymore.”

“I don’t mind either. For future reference,” Quinn remarked.

“Fine. So… we all sit there, _no one_ knows what to say or do. So, we just start drinking, telling stories, _everyone_ just looking around, because… put a bunch of spies in a pub, right? I told Max we should have it at home, but _noooo_ , he was in charge and he insisted we go there. Of course, after about fifteen minutes, no one cares to talk anymore, because we spot a security camera on the wall… So, we just exchange looks, and start laughing like maniacs. But then, Saul says ‘I think, Quinn would have loved this, actually’. And we all stop. Just like that, and we all, one by one bring our glasses to the one in front of your picture, and we all awkwardly mumble a few words to you, as we start drinking. After couple of hours we were so wasted, no one cared about the bad music outside or the time we had to wait for a refill. Virgil just went downstairs and got three more bottles… I think it _was_ Johnny Walker. So, we just kept drinking, and from time to time someone would mention you, in some ridiculous way… like, Virgil had just gotten a job, I don’t even remember what it was, but we were making fun of him, so he raises his glass and he yells ‘You know what Quinn would say to all ya motherfuckers? _FUCK YOU!_ ’ and we all jingle our glasses to yours, screaming ‘Fuck you!’”

Quinn laughed out loud, his head tilting back a little, and Carrie thought that she never remembered him laughing like that. Or laughing at all. And she thought it was one of the most beautiful sounds she ever heard.

“Anyhow,” she continued, “after a while… it was really late, and I think Virgil was virtually under the table, Max takes out his phone, puts it on the table and says, that he would like to play a few songs. And he thought we could all find a line, we could relate to, something that we felt connected us to you. And I remember thinking… that’s it - we are all fucked and Quinn is turning in his grave. Because I know Max’s taste in music. And, Quinn, it’s _so_ cheesy… I mean, the only one, who can listen to those with him is Franny. So, he starts playing, and Virgil’s head pops up from the table… his face has this expression of ‘what the fuck _is_ this shit’. And Saul just drops his head into his palm, probably thinking, same as me ‘this is a fucking disaster’. But Max looks so serious, that after a while, we all give up getting in his face about the cheesy music, and we just listen, as he has our glasses refilled. I don’t remember the other songs, but I remember ‘There you’ll be’ by Faith Hill and Bette Midler’s ‘The wind beneath my wings’. And, Quinn, cheesy or not, after a while, we are _all_ in tears. The four of us, listen to the words, and, as one of us hears a line, they relate to, or want to say to you, you can see them nod, bring their glass to touch yours, and drink. And we just sit there, listening to things like ‘In my life there’ll always be a place for you… I’ll keep a part of you with me, and everywhere I am, there you’ll be’, and ‘I always will remember all the strength you gave to me’, and ‘Because I always saw in you my light, my strength, and I want to thank you now for all the ways you were right there for me’. They just take us in, those words. And when Bette Midler gets to ‘Did I ever tell you, you’re my hero and everything I would like to be’ we just all reach for that glass of yours, and we all nod and say something incoherent to you, and we all drink. And we all cry a little. And none of us cares anymore, if the music is inappropriate.”

Quinn was quiet for a while, but she could see his eyes glisten and his chest rise and fall heavier, “For the record,” he said finally, his voice failing him and trembling, so he had to clear his throat and swallow, before going on. His tone was iron hard, but Carrie could see he was barely holding back a smile. “Max is under _my_ protection now. And if you buttheads _ever_ get in his face again, you will deal with _me_.”

Carrie laughed. And Quinn thought about Lauren again. Her words came back to him in a heartbeat _‘I think people, who knew him and loved him, miss him dearly’_. It was a shame, he realized, not many people get to hear a story about their own memorial service. Because it brought the best out of everyone. And also, ‘The wind beneath my wings’ was one of his favorite songs. And he wondered if he would ever admit _that_ to Carrie. Judging by her reaction, not before he has her heavily restrained and at gun point, so she doesn’t head for the hills.

Carrie closed her eyes, letting her head fall back, allowing her shoulders to relax and taking in a deep breath, “God, Quinn, this is…” she didn’t finish, just letting those words get their own meaning.

He didn’t say anything, driving and keeping his eyes on the road, his hand still on her lap, his fingers laced through hers, smiling. Some things were beyond adjectives, he thought.

“I don’t think we ever talked like this,” Carrie remarked, after a long while that none of them spoke.

“I don’t think we ever _talked_ ,” Quinn smiled, rubbing his thumb against the back of her hand.

“Yeah,” she nodded, slowly turning her head to face him. “How long do we have?” she saw his smile fade, his grip on her hand tighten. He didn’t need her to clarify what she meant.

“A little over twelve hours.”


	16. Hope (aka "OK")

Quinn killed the engine, removed the keys from the ignition, lightly tossing them in his hand, and turned to Carrie. His eyes were shadowed with exhaustion, and yet they lit up the moment she smiled at him, “Home,” he stated, simply.

“ _Home_?” Carrie raised one eyebrow, her forehead forming skeptical wrinkles.

He looked around, eyeing whatever was visible of the covered parking lot of the Village station, “I’ve had worse,” he said in the end, and he actually meant it, his mind vividly picturing some of the darkest holes he had to spend weeks and even months in. “And upstairs it’s actually not bad at all. They have big TV in every room. And _coffee_. _God_ , COFFEE.”

Carrie gave him an amused smile, wondering if she would _ever_ stop melting inside at the sight of him being so at ease and so goddamn happy and knowing that it was _her_ , who brought it out in him, “ _Fine_ , Quinn,” she sighed, feeling the lightness in her chest becoming even warmer. “ _Home_.”

“Our _first_ home,” he corrected, his smile widening.

Carrie laughed, unbuckled herself, and stretched her arm across his chest, her head coming to rest on his shoulder, stealing just one more moment of peace before having to move on to whatever they had to do next. “You know, Peter _Pan_ would be more fitting, right?”

Quinn kissed the top of her head, touched his fingers to her chin and gently lifted her face, “You ok?” he asked, tucking a strand of blond hair behind her ear, his blue eyes a mixture of concern and adoration.

She nodded, “I think so,” then thought about it, “I’m _better_.”

Quinn sighed deeply, resting the side of his face on top of her head. He wished he could do more. But Carrie didn’t budge, no matter how hard he tried stirring the conversation towards what was troubling her. He could feel the pain inside her, coming in waves, and they resonated with his desperate need to help her. But she just wanted to cling to _this_ , an ultimate escape into the what they had both been seeking for so many years, and he wasn’t going to deny her that. Not now. Not ever.

“I’m ok with _better_ ,” he whispered, finally, putting his arms around her.

And, as if reading his mind again, Carrie looked up and smiled, pressing herself closer to him, “I just want _this_ , Quinn,” she touched his face, letting her fingertips aimlessly wander, her eyes following, dreamy, as she whispered, giving each word a taste of its own. “Home. Franny. You.”

Peter could feel his heart growing so large all of a sudden, he wasn’t sure it had enough space inside his chest anymore. For a long while, he said nothing, just looking at the face of a woman, whom he loved so desperately, for so many years, wondering if, in all his dreams and fantasies, he ever dared imagining being so happy. There had been pain, he knew. And there had been heartbreak. And anger. And he also knew, that it wasn’t going to be easy to put it all behind them. But it was moments like this one, that made him certain, that whatever burdened them both, would fade in time. In his darkest days, many years ago, he used to think, that falling in love with Carrie wasn’t much different from opening Pandora’s box. And he tried to distant himself from her, convinced, that every time their paths crossed, more evil and sorrow just flew out of that box into the world and, most of all, into their lives. But, somehow, holding her now, he remembered the original myth of Pandora’s box and how it ended. Because, at the very bottom of it, once you had lived through the worst, there was one thing left for whoever was strong enough to survive its horrors – _hope_.

As he was leaning in, he let his eyes close, and he exhaled loudly, when his face touched hers, before breathing in the scent of her skin, knowing, that this was what _his_ home smelled like. He brushed his lips against hers, just barely, realizing that being able to do that anytime he wanted now, was worth waiting for, and living for.

“Ok,” he whispered, tracing soft kisses along her jawline, before burying his face in her hair. “Ok,” he repeated, agreeing to everything she just asked of him, and everything she would _ever_ ask of him.

__________________________________

 

Selena Grey greeted them both at the entrance level. She gave a nod to Quinn and extended a hand and a smile to Carrie.

“Miss Mathison, pleasure to meet you. Selena Grey. It’s an honor, mam.”

“Right,” Carrie couldn’t help a laugh, shaking her hand. It felt too weird being in the CIA facility after all those years, even without someone addressing her as if she was some kind of celebrity. “ _Hardly_. But thank you.”

“Shall I restore Miss Mathison’s status to active as well, sir?” Selena asked, looking at Peter now. And it hit Carrie again. He was the ranking officer. She was a visitor.

“No, that won’t be necessary,” he shook his head, took a paper pad she handed him, and signed.

Selena gave them both a meaningful look, eyeing the blood stains on their outfits, “I guess you’ll need more change of clothes,” she said.

“That’s ok,” Peter felt really bad thinking what this day must had been for her, as well. “We will manage something. Don’t trouble yourself.”

“No trouble at all, sir, I will have it sent up right away,” she smiled. “Actually, I brought it up at the stuff meeting today. We _should_ be able to accommodate people who are brought here with nothing but whatever they are wearing on their backs.”

“I think that’s a great idea. Thank you, anyway.”

“No problem, sir,” Selena handed another key card to Carrie, then turned to Quinn again. “Our officer at the hospital called just ten minutes ago. Mr. Berenson is out of surgery and was taken to the intensive care unit for now. He is still sedated. But they are saying he is stable and should be woken up later on this evening.”

“Thank you. Again,” Peter shook her hand. “For what it’s worth, I can’t put into words what everything you’ve done today means to all of us. But I _will_ put it into writing.”

“You’re welcome. And it’s ok. I am just glad we could help,” Selena remembered something, before she walked away. “I hope you don’t mind… it’s been a long wait. And I allowed Franny some walking around time. With my supervision. And Mr. Pietrowski’s. Nothing crucial, just a short visit to the operational support center, it’s pretty much empty today. She seemed to enjoy it very much,” she smiled, then added, laughing. “But I think she is still dead decided on the black ops.”

Quinn brought his ID card to the security censor next to the elevator door, and, only when it turned green, he was allowed to press the ‘up’ button. He waited, looking dead ahead, having a feeling another storm was coming, and trying to hide the smile bursting out of him.

“BLACK OPS???” Carrie pulled his arm sideways, forcing him to turn to her. Her face was an adorable mixture of amusement and frowning.

“Why not?” Quinn laughed, “I hear it’s as good a place as any for Mathison women to find hotheaded badass men to fall in love with. AW!” he winced, when she fisted him in the upper arm.

Elevator doors opened, and he stepped in, turning around. Carrie didn’t follow.

“You better get in, Carrie. Because once those doors close…” he dangled his ID card on his finger in front of her.

She sighed in frustration and went in, standing next to him, and facing the doors, “Don’t look so smug,” she elbowed him, smiling.

“Hey, a girl was raised by three spies and grows up wanting to be special forces? Hell, I will be as _smug_ about it as I want to be for the rest of my life.”

“Not funny,” Carrie grumbled, taking his hand, and looking up. “Quinn, Franny is not kidding when she gets something like that into her head.”

“I know,” he laughed, “she actually asked me to train her.”

“And you said ‘no’, right?” she was not kidding anymore. “Quinn? _Tell_ me you said ‘no’.”

He looked at her, smiling, and yet serious, “I told her, that if she still wants it when she grows up, I will.”

Carrie let out a long puff of air and let go of his hand, “I have a feeling we will start an evening in _our first home_ having our _first fight_.”

“Come here,” he took her by the waist and in one swift motion pulled her into his arms. Elevator doors opened, but he didn’t let go of her. When she stopped fighting to get away, he gently stroked her hair and carefully raised her face so that he could see her eyes. “I didn’t put that idea into her head. It was there all along. And if she _does_ want to do it when she grows up, would you trust anyone else with her training?”

“Yes,” Carrie blurted, but immediately thought better of it. “Ok, _no_. That’s not the point, Quinn.”

“I know,” he leaned in and kissed her. “The _point_ is she is _nine years old_ , Carrie. And it’s a romantic notion. A dream. And she will probably grow out of it. But if she doesn’t… Whatever she decides to do with her life, I wanted her to know we will always give her the best fighting chance to chase any dream she ends up following.”

Carrie narrowed her eyes, defeated, but still standing, “I am still mad at you,” she stated boldly, looking at him defiantly.

“Really,” Quinn whispered, not a question in his tone, more of a daring statement. “Can I just say something in my defense?” not giving her time to reply, he tilted her head up and kissed her so deeply, she felt her knees weaken and give up. He steadied her, his hand around her waist, and pulled her up against his chest. “Hmm… Evidence to the contrary,” he was smiling, having had moved away, waiting for her to catch her breath. “I fucking rest my case, Carrie.”

When he let go of her, stopping the elevator doors from closing again, Carrie was still so dizzy, she had to grab his arm to stop herself from tipping to the side, “Well _said_ ,” she managed with a trembling smile, meeting his eyes.

Peter laughed, walking her into the hallway, “I have my moments,” he took out the key for 3B. “You go ahead,” he motioned to the door to 3A. “I’ll be right back. Give me your gun.”

Carrie lifted one eyebrow, “Just like that… no dinner, no flowers… _give me your gun_.”

“Never been one for traditional dating,” he grinned, his hand still extended. “The gun, Carrie.”

She obeyed, taking out both her Glock and the silencer from the bag.

“Niccce,” he weighed it in his hand, after removing the clip and securing the barrel. “Is that…”

“The murder weapon. _Yes_ ,” Carrie didn’t care much for talking about it right now. But looking at his face, a hint of a dreamy smile, eyes squinting a bit, she couldn’t stop herself from chuckling. “I just handed you the ultimate black-ops’ turn-on, didn’t I?”

“A lil’bit, yeah,” Quinn admitted, exhaling loudly and forcing his mind off of the image of her holding it, raising her hand, steadying her aim.

“ _Ever_ planning on growing up, Quinn?”

“Nope,” he kissed her briefly, heading for the door of 3B. “I’ll put it in a safe, make some phone calls and be right in. Have fun.”

_____________________________________

 

The moment Carrie opened the door, Franny and Max both jumped up. She smiled, noticing that they were playing chess, something they always did when she would come back from work. They both leaped towards her, and she laughed, catching Franny first, and motioning to Max with her palm.

“One happy person to see me at a time.”

“Mom, you’re ok…” Franny squeezed Carrie’s waist in between her arms so tight, that breathing was not an option for a moment.

“Yes, baby,” Carrie felt the tears streaming down her face, as she kissed her daughter’s hair, her beaming face, the lids of her crystal blue eyes. She saw the purple bruise on the side of her face and her heart let out a soul wrenching sob. “God… I am so sorry, my angel,” she pressed her lips next to the bruise, lightly, afraid to hurt her.

“It’s ok, mom,” Franny looked up, her little hands finding Carrie’s face, wiping her tears, her beautiful smile so brave and open. “I’m ok.”

“I can see that,” Carrie tried to smile back through her tears.

“Mom, is Saul ok?” Franny’s smile faded, her eyes all concern now, tears floating to the surface.

“He is, sweetie,” Carrie kissed her face again, all over, smudging her own tears on her cheeks and forehead. “Selena just told us he had surgery and it went ok. He is going to be waking up soon.”

Franny nodded, swallowing tears, then thought about something and her face was even sadder now, “But we can’t go see him, right? Not even for a little bit before we have to go away?”

Carrie pulled her close to her heart and pressed her face to the top of her head, “No,” she whispered, stroking her daughter’s back. “But we _will_ see him again one day. You know that, right?”

“Yes,” Franny squeezed her eyes, keeping the tears in. Always trying to be brave.

Carrie didn’t get the chance to close the door, and, in a hallway, Quinn was standing next to it, his back to the wall, listening, stealing another moment of bliss, before tending to the hard things he needed to do next. His eyes were moist, his chest rising heavily. He listened to their chatter, indulging himself to a feeling of peace, dissolving into their voices, not daring to spoil that moment. There will be time for it, he knew, and his heart ached with anticipation. Maybe not a long time before they had to part again, but there would be a lifetime of it soon enough. And, as he tore himself from the wall and walked towards 3B, he swore he would think not of tomorrow, but of a year from now, five years, ten years, even thirty.

He took out Saul’s private phone and a piece of paper with a number. He found a name in the long list of contacts and dialed. The phone was answered after a first ring, “Saul,” an unfamiliar voice said with a hint of a foreign accent.

“Hi,” Peter lowered himself on a sofa and leaned back. “This is not Saul, Otto. Saul left a flash drive in your coat once, in Berlin. In your right pocket. Packed inside a napkin.”

There was a long silence, “He did,” Otto said finally, acknowledging their verification detail.

“Are you alone? Do you have your burner on you?” Peter looked at the number on the piece of paper in his hand. He never imagined Saul would have someone like Otto carry a burner. But then again, Saul was Saul.

“Give me twenty seconds,” the private line went dead. Quinn turned off Saul’s phone and removed the sim card.

Twenty seconds later he dialed the burner number.

“I’m Saul’s operative,” he said without further delay as soon as Otto’s voice came through, still wondering if he should give him his name. And he also remembered what Saul told him today about Otto’s involvement in the operation. Mainly, about everything Otto had done for _him_. “I was the one you helped. Thank you,” he said, honestly.

“My pleasure,” a voice came back. “Is Saul ok?”

“Actually, no. He’s been shot. But he’ll be fine. You should expect to hear from him in a day or two,” Peter waited for a reply, which never came. He cleared his throat. “My name is Peter Quinn,” he said, deciding, that having someone’s trust to do what he needed required some trust back.

Otto was silent for a while, his memory fast at work, connecting the dots. He _had_ heard this name before, “Carrie’s Quinn?” he asked promptly.

Quinn’s heartbeat quickened, “Yes,” he answered immediately, wondering how come he never knew, that Carrie told Otto about him. And trying not to think about how curious he was to know what.

“I am even happier now I was able to be of assistance to you,” Otto said after some consideration. “How can I help you, Peter?”

Quinn stood up and checked the door to the small balcony. It was unlocked. The rain outside calmed down a bit, but it was still noisy enough to provide a sufficient distortion. He didn’t believe there were listening devices in the safe house. But he wouldn’t take any chances with what he needed to ask of Otto. He opened the door and stepped outside.

“It’s about your plane,” he said. And he told Otto what he needed. Hoping to God he would agree to help, while being acutely aware of the cost of what he was asking.

Otto listened intently. When Quinn was done, he considered everything involved, and got straight to the point, “Do you have a pilot, who can do that?”

“I know someone.”

“Someone you can trust?”

“Someone, who will do it without asking questions. He owes me one.”

“Alright,” Otto said simply.

“Thank you,” Peter replied. He wanted to say more, he wished he could ever put into words how grateful he was to this man for everything he did for him. Without even knowing him.

Otto was thinking about Carrie. Reluctant to hang up, too. He remembered the last thing he ever told her _“If it’s not me, Carrie, let it be someone else.”_

“Are you the someone else?” he heard himself asking, realizing too late how ridiculous it sounded, provided the man on the other side of the line didn’t even know about the conversation.

But he was wrong. Not about Quinn not knowing about the conversation, but about him not understanding what he was asking.

“I am,” Peter answered, suddenly putting together part of Otto’s connection to Saul. And his willingness to do this. Carrie just had this power over people.

“You’ve made a friend today,” Otto spoke, finally. “If there is anything you ever need.”

“Thank you. Same here,” Quinn wondered what _he_ could ever do for a man of Otto’s resources, but he knew he would do anything at this point.

“Get them to safety, Peter. And make them happy.”

“I will,” Quinn promised before the line went dead.

He sighed deeply and shook his head. People just kept surprising him today. More than they had been in a long while. He put Carrie’s gun in a safe and locked the door behind them. There was nothing to do now but to be with those he loved the most. And he couldn’t stand one more second being away from them.

The door to 3A was still a crack open, he could hear Carrie and Franny chattering, their voices relaxed and happy now. He was away barely three minutes. And he was wondering if he still had an element of surprise. He was about to walk in, when he heard Carrie exclaim suddenly.

“Oh my God, are you actually wearing pink tights with flowered top? How did _that_ happen??? Is that what Selena brought for you?” Quinn peeked through the crack only to see Carrie shoot a scolding look at Max.

Max scoffed, waving his hand, “Right, like she would let _me_ make her wear pink.”

It was his que, Quinn knew. He punched the door open all the way and leaned against the side of the frame, crossing his arms on his chest.

Carrie, still holding Franny, saw her daughter’s face burst into a smile so wide and bright, it was if the entire room lit up for a moment. She looked up and saw that same smile reflecting in Quinn’s eyes, as he stepped closer, meeting Franny half way as she threw herself from her mother’s arms into his. He bent in, caught her half leap, and picked her up, leveling her face with his. Pressed against his chest, she wrapped her arms around his neck, laughing as he swirled her around.

“You came BACK!” her face was beaming, when she pulled away and clasped his head with her little hands.

“I did,” Quinn smiled, completely lost in her happiness. “And I’ve missed you _so_ much!”

“I’ve missed you too!” she hugged his neck again, propping her chin on his shoulder. “Are you going to stay now? Until we have to go?”

Peter turned his head and pressed his lips to the side of hers, “Every single minute of it.”

Franny was so happy she could barely contain it. She turned to her mother, and then something clicked inside her. She looked at Peter again, squinting her eyes, “Did mom freak out, when she first saw you?”

He laughed, “Oh yeah.”

Carrie watched them through tears, as they just kept talking, catching up, Franny’s legs dangling in the air along Quinn’s body, his arms wrapped tightly around her, holding her next to his heart, Franny’s slim arms around his shoulders, their eyes locked on each other’s: she had all his attention and he had all her adoration. And Carrie was wondering, what she could have had possibly done so right in her life to deserve _that_. She felt Max’s hand on her back and she let him pull her close.

“When did _that_ happen?” she asked, tears breaking her voice.

Max kissed her head, “Beats me. My best guess would be ‘bout five years ago. ‘Cause they been at it since I first got here. Just talking, whispering. Two damn peas in a pot.”

Carrie just nodded, squeezing Max’s hand and putting her head on his shoulder. He studied her face closely now. Those were not sad tears. She was happy. _Really_ happy. And it was more, than just having Quinn back alive. She noticed his eyes on her and looked up. Max broke into the widest and happiest of smiles, “You two idiots finally did it, didn’t you?”

“Max!” Carrie pulled away, wiping her tears and laughing.

“I don’t mean _it_ ,” he retreated, embarrassed. “I mean… you know…”

She laughed again, nodding and hugging him, “God, you’re a geek, Max. And I love you.”

Max held her tight, a happy smile on his face, “I love you, too,” and, as they both turned to watch Quinn and Franny again, he sighed, shaking his head from side to side. “Without a doubt… best memorial to date.”

Carrie had a comment on that, but she bit her tongue, remembering who she was going to answer to for pestering Max again. She just kissed him on a cheek and laced her arm through his again.

Quinn carefully lowered Franny back to the floor and put his arm around her shoulders, “So, the de-briefing is done… Briefing then?” he smiled down at her.

“Yep,” she beamed. “We need a new plan.”

“We do,” he leaned closer. “I’m gonna have to talk to Max for a while, before he leaves for the hospital. Then we’ll sit down, the three of us, and we’ll make a new strategy.”

“Can you play chess?” Franny’s face lit up with anticipation. “Max taught me, when I was little. We play almost every day.”

Quinn winced, “Very little. And very poorly.”

“And if I teach you?” she insisted.

“Set it up,” he smiled, kissing the top of her head. “I’ll talk to Max, take a quick shower, and you’re on.”

 

 

“Max, you got a minute?” Quinn asked, when Max started gathering his things getting ready to leave.

“Sure.”

Peter crossed the room to the intercom and pressed a button. Selena’s voice came through right away. He asked if the car for Max was ready, and, when she said that it was, he asked, if it was possible to find someone who could drive Max to and from the hospital. He apologized for the inconvenience. Selena was as accommodating as ever.

Max listened, very confused, and very embarrassed, having no clue what this all was about, and, when Peter was finished, he moved uneasily, looking to the side and said that he could drive himself.

“Not today, you can’t,” Quinn walked into the kitchen. He remembered seeing it somewhere. Finally, he found it – a bottle of Jack Daniels was in the lower cabinet. He took out two whiskey glasses, picked up the bottle and motioned with his head towards Max’s coat. “Put it on, it’s fu…” he stopped himself, stealing a look at Franny. “…damn freezing outside.”

That said, ignoring Max’s puzzled look and increasing anxiety, he walked towards the balcony door. There was barely a place outside, where the drizzling couldn’t get, but he figured, they would manage. Passing next to Carrie, he gave her a peck on a cheek and whispered, “Be right back.”

Carrie stopped him on his track, and, smiling, pulled him in for a kiss, “Take your time,” she covered his shoulders with his coat: stained with blood or not, it was better, then nothing.

They stood outside for a while, watching the rain in silence. Quinn didn’t know where to start. There were many things he wanted to say. And he hadn’t quite figured out that elusive _right_ thing, or at least, the right _way_ of saying it. He needed Max’s help. And he also needed to tell him something very important, that he couldn’t get out of his mind ever since his conversation with Carrie on their way over. There was supposed to be the right order, he realized, he just didn’t have the time to figure out what it was.

“You know, I trust you, right?” he asked, finally, turning to Max. He decided to put the whiskey and the glasses on a shaky table in the corner for now.

Max looked at him, wondering where this was going, a little intimidated, but mostly, just unsure of what to say, “Yeah,” he managed in the end.

“Not with the agency crap, Max. I mean, _really_ trust you. With the most important things. For both of us.”

“Ok,” Max knew what he was talking about. He caught him stealing a look at Carrie and Franny. And he nodded.

Quinn didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. And he wished he could find the right words, later, to say what really mattered. But for now, he needed the things to start moving. So, he just pushed through Max’s embarrassment, “Do you think we can get into the JFK security and flight logs?”

“Sure,” Max nodded, but then added, for clarification. “We?”

“Ok, fair point. _You_. What do you mean ‘sure’? Is it easy?”

Max shifted his weight from one leg to another, “No. But I can do it. If you need me to.”

Quinn reached for his pocked and dug out a crumpled pack of red L&Ms. He offered one to Max, and, to his surprised, it wasn’t rejected. They both let out long swirls of white smoke, looking even more prominent in the dark, mixed with breath vapor in this cold.

“Can you get in trouble?” Peter asked, finally.

“Not if I am careful. No,” Max seemed a little more at ease now.

“Promise me you will be careful?”

“Sure. Not the first time,” Max coughed a little. He didn’t smoke very often. But he didn’t throw the cigarette away. For the first time today, he actually felt relaxed. “What do we need?”

“Can an unchartered plane be moved into official logs?” Quinn had this idea in his head for a very short time. He wasn’t sure himself how to pull it off. He needed Carrie to run it through that head of hers – she was the only one he could trust to tell him if it was solid enough to put in motion. But time was short, and he needed to start moving some pieces now.

“No problem,” Max answered, considering what something like that would involve.

Quinn told him the rest. He didn’t go into great detail, simply because he didn’t have that much of it yet, but he could see, that Max had an idea.

“Do you need an equipment for that? I can get it from your office… or home.”

Max shrugged, looking at him funnily, “I have my laptop with me.”

“Laptop? All it takes?”

“Well, yeah… and me,” talking to people, who didn’t understand what he did (and loved) was hard for him. Even to Quinn. Maybe, especially, to Quinn. If there was ever a completely analog (as opposed to digital) person, Quinn was it.

“Max,” Peter looked at him, concerned, “are you sure you won’t get in trouble?”

“Pretty sure,” having someone talk to him like that, someone other than Franny and Carrie, was very disconcerting.

“ _Pretty sure_ is not good enough, Max. I won’t have you fucking go to jail.”

“I am sure, Quinn. Done it many times before. And to places much more secure than airport database.”

Quinn put a hand on his arm, waiting for him to raise his head, “Thank you,” he said then, smiling.

“Sure,” Max averted his eyes, embarrassed again. And Quinn thought just how heartbreaking it was, seeing this loyal, talented, brave man thinking so little of himself, even now, understanding how important was what he was about to do for the people he cared about.

He looked at the time. It was quarter past five. Peter opened the Jack Daniels bottle and poured a sip into both glasses. Then he handed one to Max, “What time was that memorial dinner supposed to be today?”

“Five,” Max looked at the glass in his hand, then at Quinn. “But…”

“So, _now_ ,” Peter smiled.

“Yeah.”

“Got your phone?” he saw Max take out a large smartphone and hand I to him. “No. Keep it. I was wondering if you have ‘The Wind Beneath My Wings’ on it.”

Max exhaled loudly and shot a scornful look at Carrie through the glass. She wasn’t even looking at him, he knew, but he felt so embarrassed and humiliated at that moment, that he couldn’t help it. She shouldn’t have told Quinn about it. Any of it. Let alone the cheesy songs. His face turned so red he could feel his cheeks burning.

“Max,” Peter stepped closer, putting his hand on Max’s arm again. “Just hit it.”

Max looked up and saw nothing but kindness in those bright blue eyes. He opened the music player and started typing ‘wings’ into the search field. Before he could push the play button, Quinn stopped him.

“Ok, before you do,” Quinn raised his glass and brought it to touch Max’s. They both drank, and he had the glasses refilled. “This song… I used to play it for a woman I was in love with… many years ago,” he couldn’t believe how easy it was saying this to Max. Or saying it at all. The life, that he gave up on fixing or ever trying to get back to, was something that brought him so much pain, that, most of the time, he didn’t allow himself to even think about it. “The point is… I guess,” he regrouped his thoughts, “this song is not about me. Or people like me,” he carefully took the phone from Max’s hand and pushed play. “It’s about you. About people who stand behind those they care about. People who enable us. And support us. Those, who are there every time we need them.”

Max’s eyes filled with tears, but he didn’t say anything. The music started, and, as the first words hit the air, he saw Quinn nod to him, raise his glass again, bring it to his, making sure Max knew what he was doing and why. _“It must have been cold there in my shadow, to never have sunlight on your face. You were content to let me shine, that’s your way, you always walked a step behind,”_ were the words Quinn was saying to him, drinking up, as the song played along. Then refilling, and doing the same again. And again. And Max couldn’t breathe. He wasn’t embarrassed anymore, weirdly enough, realizing that under any other circumstances, he would have died right there and then, just being put on the spot like that. But he didn’t. He just stood there, watching a man he admired for so long, a man he mourned, a man he had on a pedestal for being everything he could never become himself, showing him with every look, with every word, that he didn’t care about him being anything, except for what he already was.

When the song ended, they had about five shots each. Quinn made them small, knowing well they would both need to be conscious for the rest of the day. But now Max knew, why he needed a dedicated driver and it made him smile, realizing that it wasn’t because Peter didn’t trust him, but because he cared about him. And, by the time the last of the accords died out, he knew, what _he_ was going to say to Quinn.

“That woman… was it Julia?”

Quinn nodded, surprised. And Max told him about the time he and Virgil broke into his apartment ten years ago. And found a book with a picture of Julia and John Jr.

“Fuck me,” Peter ran his hand through his hair. “So, it was you motherfuckers, who had Saul paying her a visit and scaring the living shit out of her.”

Max said he was sorry. But he could see, that Quinn wasn’t really upset. Just some pieces falling into places from the time, that didn’t really matter anymore to any of them.

“You know, Carrie reached out to her, right?” Max said suddenly, and he could see Peter’s eyes open wide. “About half a year after you… you know… she picked up the phone and asked if they could meet. She drove all the way to Philly. Carrie told Julia about what happened to you. And she asked if it would be ok, if she spoke to JJ,” seeing how Quinn didn’t get the reference, he clarified, “Johnny. JJ is what Franny calls him. You know… for John Jr.”

Peter could feel his face twitch, tears flooding his throat, he looked away, unable to say anything. He looked at Carrie through the glass, and he wasn’t sure if there would ever come a day, when he would feel more love for that woman, than he did at that moment. And, as Max continued, he let the tears blur his vision, letting go of the last shreds of control he had over his heart.

“Julia got married about three years ago. To a veteran. His name is Liam Moore. Carrie is the godmother to their firstborn son – his name is Peter. And JJ changed his last name to Quinn about a year ago. Carrie and him, they became quite close. She told him everything she could about you. You see, Julia never did. Mostly because she didn’t know much about your life after you guys split. But Carrie wanted to fill in that void. And she did, too. He is not a little boy anymore,” Max laughed, raising his hand above his head to about Quinn’s height. “He is a bright and sensitive young man. Fourteen years old soon. He has your eyes. And Julia’s face,” he waited for Peter to catch a breath, seeing how overwhelmed he was, not even trying to imagine what this meant to him. “Carrie and Julia talk a lot, too. Several times a week, for sure. Julia is pregnant with their second one. A girl. God only knows what they are going to call _that_ one. You ever had a girl’s name?”

Quinn laughed, his tears bursting out, his laughter broken with a quiet sob, he grabbed Max’s arm, turning away from the window, letting the cold air and droplets of rain cool his face, “Fuck, Max,” was all he could manage.

Max opened the gallery on his phone and flipped through some pictures. He found the one he was looking for: Carrie, Franny, himself, Saul, Julia, a handsome redheaded man with a baby in his arms, and a tall slender boy with bright blue eyes and a shy smile, his arm around Franny’s shoulders, “That’s us. The gang. Having a picnic in Carrie’s backyard.”

He watched Quinn toying around with the picture, zooming in and out on the faces of people, who were, suddenly, two of his lives mended together. He saw him smile, looking at his son’s face, touching it with his finger, and he saw him laugh, looking at Franny’s beaming face, turned to Johnny.

“I think she has a secret crash on him,” he commented, then thought about it. “Carrie thinks so, too. They just adore each other. But then again, Quinn men seem to be the curse of Mathison women. So, it never surprised _me_. Also, her being nine years old is not much of a problem, seeing how he is a Quinn and she is a Mathison, and on a good day it takes your kind about ten years, a funeral, four memorial services and sixteen dead motherfuckers to come to your senses.”

Quinn laughed out loud and elbowed Max in the ribs. But he didn’t object. He was still looking at the picture, thinking, that this day, that started as an ordinary day in a life of a covert operative, just became the first day of the rest of his life – _both_ his lives, merged into one, in the hands of a woman, who held a sway over him he never really understood. Maybe not until this very moment.

“She loves you so much, you know,” said Max, as if reading his thoughts. “And I think she did long before she knew it. And when she couldn’t get you back, she did the crazy Carrie thing… she got you into the lives of the people you never got a chance to be a family with. So, all you have to do now, when the dust settles on all this, is pick up the phone,” Max waited a bit for those words to sink in. Then he put his hand on Quinn’s shoulder and squeezed. “I’m gonna butt out now. Go see Saul and leave you guys to have some time alone. I’ll text you when I’m done with the airport thing. Be back when it’s time for Franny to go to sleep.”

Peter looked down, realizing why. And he nodded, a little embarrassed. He watched Max give Franny and Carrie a kiss and walk away, the door closing behind him. Carrie looked at him through the glass, smiling. One of her eyebrows raised, motioning her head to the kitchen. He could see the coffee pot filling with dripping brown fluid. And he could almost smell it from here. He smiled back, but he didn’t go in just yet.

She was pouring coffee into a large blue mug on the kitchen counter, when she felt his hands on her waist. She leaned back, letting her head rest against his collar bone, waiting for his arms to wrap around her, his palms sliding against her abdomen, enveloping her.

“Hey,” she whispered, rubbing the back of her head against his shoulder.

He didn’t say anything, but she could feel his lips on her jawline, tracing along the side of her neck, and she could feel his breath hot and moist against her skin. And then she felt the wetness on his face, and she turned her head, worried.

“Quinn?” she turned around in his arms and saw his face all stained with tears. He didn’t speak, but his eyes were overflown with so many different emotions, that she let out a soft gasp. “Are you ok?” she touched her hand to the side of his face, and, when the corners of his lips trembled again, she threw her arms around him. “Hey… It’s ok. Whatever it is… It’s ok. Come here…” _What the fuck did Max say to him to make him so upset? Fucking Max._

Quinn pulled away, his hands coming to frame her face. He looked at her, just looked into her eyes, his finger tracing along her hairline, as if painting her. He kissed her forehead, then her eyebrow, then her temple. He kept moving to the side of her face, leaving a trail of kisses as he did, until he reached her ear. He lingered there, breathing hard, and then, pressing his lips into it, he whispered, “Marry me.”

He could feel Carrie smiling before, he could see her. She pulled herself up, and he helped her to it, just like he did in that ambulance bay, and she ran her fingers through his hair, before kissing him and saying, “Ok.”


	17. Do You Understand Now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've added more content to the end of this chapter. It felt too hollow to me. I needed to show the demons inside Carrie as she tries to take another self-destructive step. I felt I skipped over it. It was clear in my head, but i felt not enough in writing.

Saul’s mind was a mosaic of patches. There were voices – some seemed to be coming from around him, some from inside of his head.

“Mr. Berenson, can you open your eyes?” one voice said. It was female. Very law. Someone touched his shoulder, shook him very lightly. “He seems to be breathing on his own with the ventilator. Let’s crank the respiratory rate down to eight. It’s gonna take a while.”

Dar Adal. He is coming from behind Carrie’s back. What is Carrie doing here? She is supposed to be… Dar Adal again. There is something about the way he looks. About the way his shadow falls on Carrie. What is it? Why is Dar Adal here? Did this happen? When did this happen?

Mira. They are at the coffee shop. The people around have heavy bags. Families laughing. They are not. Is it an airport? Mira looks sad. No. Not sad. She is angry. She tells him, that his _job finally did it – it took over their lives_. There are tears in her eyes. And there are wet lines running down her face, stretching from her eyelids to her neck. He thinks those are the roads he made her walk with him – the roads of endurance. She has been his anchor. She is not anymore. She will never forgive him for letting this mission take away the remainders of her life. She can’t even go home to her family. She knows she has to flee. And she hates him for it. She stands up. Throws a ten-dollar bill on the table. Takes her bag. He says _it’s fine, I got it_. She says he _never did_. She is quiet for a short while. Then she asks him to never come looking for her. _It’s over_.

“Sir, you can’t be here, he is still coming off sedation,” same female voice.

Then another voice. He knows it. It’s Max, “I’ll stay.” _Max, please stay. Don’t go._

There is some more talking. Things are being said, soft voices arguing, _matter of national security_. Max says he is not leaving. Saul tries to move his hand. He feels someone taking it, “I’m right here, Saul,” Max.

Saul takes a breath, because suddenly there is not enough air. As he does, the air flows easily into his lungs. A little too easily. As if he is not the one doing the breathing. He can feel his chest expand a little too much.

“Reduce the pressure support,” he hears someone saying. Another voice. Male. “He takes good volumes. Let’s switch to CPAP, see what he does. Stop the ketamine and the midazolam drip completely. Leave him on fentanyl for now. Let’s see ABGs in twenty minutes.”

Saul breathes in again. This is nice, it feels better now. Nothing is pushing the air into his chest anymore. He just breathes.

Dar Adal is eating waffles. Saul can smell the coffee in the air. A young waitress asks him if he would like his cup refilled. He doesn’t remember, what he answered. He looks at Dar Adal. And he feels… What does he feel? There is something off. Like that day is happening now. Carrie is standing behind the counter. Then she walks closer. She is that waitress. But she doesn’t ask if he would like more coffee. She asks if _he understands now_. She is not sad. She is very angry. She has a gun in her hand. She levels it with Dar Adal’s head and she pulls the trigger. There is no blood. He looks down. It’s not Dar Adal. It’s Quinn. Carrie takes Saul by the shoulder and she shakes him, her eyes filled with rage. _Do you understand now?_

Mira is walking away. The airport is busy. He wants to go after her. He looks at the money on the table. Then he looks at Mira again. But she is gone. And he is lost. The pain is so bad, he can’t breathe. Something beeps. Short warning sounds at first, then they become more intense.

“Excuse me, sir,” he hears the same female voice. He feels Max’s hand move away and a chair screeching on the floor. The beeping stops. Like someone just killed an alarm.

He tries to open his eyes. It’s all a blur. He can see a figure in green, blond ponytail, there is a screen behind her. She is tapping her fingers on it. Numbers flicker in front of his eyes. Waves in different colors. The red light at the right corner of the screen goes off. The woman turns to him.

“Sir? Can you hear me?” he nods, tries to say something. There is no sound. His throat feels weird. And there is something in his mouth. She leans closer, her hand on his arm. “Don’t try to talk yet. You have a breathing tube in your mouth. You’ve had surgery. It went fine. I know, it’s scary as hell right now. But I need you to just lie still and breath slowly. Your blood pressure is a bit high. Are you in pain?” he shakes his head. There is no pain. “I will give you something to calm you down a little,” she reaches for something behind his head. There are some more beeping sounds, different than before. His eyes close. He takes her advice and tries to concentrate on his breathing. The patches come back. He needs to understand what they mean. Max’s hand is holding his again. That’s good. He needs to go back to that place. He needs to remember, what he was supposed to understand.

Mira is gone. He is still at the table. He looks at the money she left for the coffee. It’s gone too. There is Quinn’s picture instead. And a glass with a shot of whiskey. Max is there, Carrie and Virgil. Music is playing somewhere. And it’s playing here, too. But not the same music. He listens. He realizes he is crying. Carrie’s hand is around his shoulders. She thinks he is crying for Quinn. He isn’t. He listens to the words. _It might have appeared to go unnoticed, but I’ve got it all here in my heart. I want you to know, I know the truth (of course I know it) – I would be nothing without you._ He is crying. Not for Quinn. For Mira. For choosing his job over his home. For hurting the only person he ever loved. For making her live in his shadow. He is crying _now_ , too. The monitor beeps again, angrily. His blood pressure is through the roof. He doesn’t care.

It all goes black for some time again. And the only thing he can see now is Dar Adal. _He is one of mine._ Those words. Saul is in that diner once more. Carrie is not around. Dar Adal is eating his waffles. _He is one of mine._ There is a weird feeling in Saul’s chest. It’s more than a bad feeling. It’s like a bad taste in his mouth. He is trying to cling to that thought. What made him feel such disgust the moment Dar Adal spoke those words? _He is one of mine._ Quinn’s face now. He sits next to Dar Adal. He looks at Saul. _Do you understand now?_ He really doesn’t. And it’s more than that. It feels like all of them are here to answer a question. But he doesn’t remember ever asking one. He doesn’t even know what it was. What was he supposed to understand?

Some more beeping pierces through his dream. Was it a dream? Max’s voice is worried, “Why is there a straight line?”

Saul hears woman’s voice, it’s soothing, “Don’t worry, sir. The monitor can’t measure blood pressure, when I am taking arterial blood. It’ll be back in a sec,” there is a tingling sensation running through his right hand. It goes numb and Saul tries to wiggle his fingers. A hand touches his shoulder. “It’s the saline solution, sir. It can be a little numbing when arterial line is flushed. It’ll pass in a minute.”

Max again, he is talking to the nurse, he calls her Sandy. He is worried about Saul. He says it seems like he is in pain. He also points out that Saul is crying. Sandy’s voice is soft, when she speaks back.

“It’s the ketamine. It can give you some freaky dreams. He is still coming off of it. But don’t worry. The midazolam will make him forget it. I’ll be right back.”

Saul opens his eyes, he looks at Max. Then he looks at Sandy walking away with a sample of his blood in her hand. He is trying to get up. He wants to scream, that he doesn’t want to forget. He needs to understand. Because it’s not just a drug induced dream. There is a question, and his mind is trying to figure out an answer to it. He needs to remember. He can’t forget.

He is in the woods. He knows he is in Switzerland. He is waiting for Quinn. He can see him walking towards him. But it’s a young boy instead, tall and slender. He looks like Johnny. But then he comes closer and Saul can see he has no face. Dar Adal comes from behind him. He puts his hand around the boy and pushes him close. _He is one of mine_. The bad taste in the back of Saul’s throat is back. Those words bring up a memory. Maybe not a memory. A glimpse. The kind of glimpse that makes Saul shiver. Then Carrie again. She shoots Dar Adal. She puts her arms around the boy. Only now it _is_ Quinn. She looks at Saul. _Do you understand now?_

There were rumors. Saul’s eyes fly open as that thought hits his mind. _There were rumors. And if there were rumors, Carrie would figure it out. And she did._

There are three people around him now. Max is gone. They are talking to him and it takes him a while to concentrate enough to understand. They are saying that they will be taking the breathing tube out now. Sandy fiddles with something dangling at the side of his neck. There is a syringe in her hands. She smiles, as she sees Saul’s eyes focus on her.

“Mr. Berenson, can you take a deep breath and blow hard? Like you’re blowing on a candle?”

He does. Something hard is sliding against his throat from inside. He coughs violently and the monitor beeps. Sandy silences it. She is telling him, that it’s ok. He can take a breath now. She puts an oxygen mask on his face. It smells of new plastic, but the air coming out of it is cool and he enjoys breathing it in.

“Max,” he tries to speak. His can hear the sound coming out of him now, but his voice is barely audible. Sandy asks him to lie down. She explains that there is still some swelling from the tube and he shouldn’t try to talk just yet. She says she will bring him some ice chips. Saul nods. He calls for Max again. He needs to talk to him.

He reaches for Max’s hand. The other people leave, and he can see Max bring his chair closer to his bed. His hand is holding Saul’s again. It’s warm.

“Why did Carrie go after Dar Adal?” Saul asks. And he knows now, that this _is_ the question. And he says it out loud, so, if he forgets, Max will remember. He _needs_ to remember.

Max shifts uncomfortably and looks down. There is something on his face, that Saul can’t quite place.

“You shouldn’t be talking right now,” Max says. He doesn’t tell Saul, that he doesn’t know. He doesn’t tell him, that it’s because Dar inadvertently caused Quinn’s death. Because they both know, Carrie is not a fool. She would know Dar Adal didn’t mean for it to happen. She had to know everything that went down five years ago.

“There were rumors,” Saul says, feeling his eyelids bearing down, realizing that he was falling asleep again. He tries to fight it. “About Dar’s recruitment tactics…” he mumbles, “about his boys… and what he did to them.”

“Saul, don’t talk about that. You don’t talk about that,” says Max and Saul manages to open his eyes for just another moment. He didn’t say, that _he shouldn’t talk_. Or that he shouldn’t talk about it _now_. He said, he shouldn’t talk about _it_. Period. Ever. Saul knows now. He understands. His eyes close and it all sinks into darkness again.

His dream is vivid now. More real. Quieter. He is sitting in the armchair in Carrie’s ‘office’. She is crying. He wants to hold her so badly. He feels his heart bleed for every tear on her face. She is so broken. But he needs to be strong. He needs to scare the living shit out of her. He needs to guilt her into going away. Because he knows now just how deep the rabbit hole goes. And he won’t see her hurt. He tells her things, that break her heart. And they break his, too. Max sits next to her now. Holding her hand. Saul knows now, why Max is there. He has always been there.

His eyes flicker open. Max seems to be asleep on the chair, but the moment Saul stirs, he sits up. Saul looks at him for a while. Then he motions with his eyes to the security camera on the ceiling, not even a movement, just one short meaningful look. Max understands. He sighs deeply, takes out his phone and fiddles with it for a while. When he is done, he looks up at Saul. And Saul can see the red dot on the security camera is dead.

“You knew,” he says, immediately. His voice is stronger now.

Max doesn’t reply. He just sinks deeper into his chair, and he looks at Saul. His face has always been an open book. And it is now, too.

“You didn’t just know,” Saul mutters, shaking his head. “You helped her.”

Max is still silent. But Saul doesn’t need him to speak. He knows. He looks into Max’s eyes and he sees his own guilt reflecting in them.

“It’s not her fault,” Max speaks, finally. “None of what happened today. You burned her. _You_ gave her up. She was about to go away. She never asked for anyone’s help, because she wasn’t going to risk anyone’s life. She did all of this on her own. Until I found out. None of it would have happened if it weren’t for your operation.”

Saul feels tears in his eyes. He knows, Max is right. He also knows, he did more, than burning Carrie. He knows now, why Dar Adal was in his dreams. And it’s not just about his past with Quinn. He has an answer to the question Quinn asked him this morning. He knows now, Dar Adal _knew_ it was Carrie. He was the only one, who knew where they would be. The shooter was there, because Dar Adal spoke to Jefferson. And now, having realized why Carrie went after Dar Adal, he also knew, it wasn’t about protecting the mission anymore. Carrie was no fool, alright. But neither was Dar. And it was about saving his skin now. Because those boys he abused might have had nowhere to go. Because you don’t go to the police to place a complaint against the guy who runs the darkest operations in the agency’s history. Because they were trapped. But Carrie wasn’t going to go to the police. Carrie wasn’t after him for inadvertently causing Quinn’s death. She was after him for ruining Quinn’s life. And Dar knew, she would finish the job. One way or another. Saul’s only relief now, is that he never told Dar about the safe house. But that doesn’t quite make him feel better.

“You need to go back,” he says to Max, squeezing his hand. “She will finish the job,” his eyes are a silent plea.

Max shakes his head, “No, she won’t.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“I know,” Max covers Saul’s hand with his other one. There is a faint smile in the corners of his lips. “Because it doesn’t matter anymore. And because he won’t let her.”

 

______________________________________

 

Carrie opens the door to 3B. Quinn and Franny are waiting for her to take a shower. She didn’t. She washed up quickly and sneaked out. She looks at Quinn’s ID card in her hand. She took it from his coat when she put it on him.

She crosses the room to get to the safe. She has three possible number combinations in mind. All three of them are dates. People are most likely to use dates for their passwords. Max told her that once. She punches in the first date that comes to mind. The led indicator next to the keypad turns green. The door opens.

She takes out her gun, the silencer and the magazine. She screws the silencer onto the barrel. But the magazine won’t go in. She plays with the release button, but it’s a no go. There is something stuck inside the grip. She looks in and sees a piece of paper. As she removes it, carefully pulling it out, she can see the letters on the inner side of it. And her vision becomes blurry. She recognizes the handwriting.

_“I’m only half a moron, remember?_

_The motherfucker is not worth our lives._

_He never had mine. Because, I never let him._

_But you do._

_So, put the fucking gun down, Carrie. And come back to me._

_Quinn.”_

Her hand is shaking so hard she can barely hold the note. She stares for a long time. The letters mend together and become black strings on a white canvas. But they are not erased from her burning mind. _Come back to me_. Her head falls back, a loud hissing of air escaping her chest is like a gust of that cold wind outside. Her face is to the ceiling now. Her hands fall to her side, one still clenching his note, the other – her gun. _What is wrong with me_. How does one come from what she just had in that other apartment to _this_? How does one throw all that away? _Fuck. FUCK._

She is against the wall now. The safe to her right. Her knees give up and she can feel herself sliding to the floor. Slowly. She is shaking, all of her now. She is crying, and she doesn’t know why. She doesn’t understand any of it anymore. _He never had my life. But you do_. And she knows, it’s true. It’s always been true. Why is she here, then? Why is she doing this all over again?

Jerry. Sarah. Saul. Quinn. He is out there with them now. _Come back to me_. But how can she? How can she just let him love her after everything she did? How can she ever look at him without feeling she doesn’t deserve the kindness in those eyes?

She knows she will hurt him. Again. She is like Dar Adal. She is no different. She needs to finish what she started. She doesn’t care if she gets herself killed in the process. She is a curse to everyone she ever loved. Why would it be any different now. He said he will fight for their lives. She believes him. But for how long? How long before she hurts him to the point of driving him back into darkness, from which there is no escape? She is a curse. A curse, that has his life. He can’t save her. Not this time. There is no coming back from this. She will be his doom. _God, I love you. Please, don’t let go of me. Please, help me_. She wants to scream. She wants him to walk through that door and pick her up. She wants him to tell her, they will get through this. She wants to feel safe again. But he doesn’t. The door is closed.

Carrie wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, the one holding the gun. She takes the magazine and slips it in. It clicks. There is nothing between her and her grim end now. He should have taken out the bullets. He should’ve chosen a different code. She looks at the note, her vision is clear now. Why did he think this would be enough? But then, she is still here, isn’t she? _Come back to me_. _GODDAMN YOU, QUINN!!!_

She breathes slowly now, calming herself down. She picks up his ID card. The picture is old. Did she know him then? Did he love her then? She tries to remember a time, when she could be sure he didn’t. She can’t. Every time she remembers his eyes on her, in all those years, she can see a longing of his heart. _Come back to me_. She smiles. Her heart is broken. But she smiles. A weird sound breaks out of her chest. It’s a sob. But it’s a bitter laugh too. He really didn’t need to remove the bullets. Or pick a code she couldn’t guess. She looks at his picture again. She understands why. All she wants is to hold him. To keep that heart safe. Even if it means from herself.

Her thumb is on the magazine release button. She doesn’t know how or why, but as if it had a mind of its own, it bears down. The magazine is out. She stands up. She puts the gun back in a safe and she shuts the door. She presses her head to the wall next to it. Whatever she has to live with, might break her. But not today. Because she is still here. Whatever she might do to ruin their lives, it’s nothing compared to the thought of never seeing him again. Of never seeing Franny. Of never seeing them together. She will live with it. All of it. She will live because no matter how much she doesn’t deserve it, no matter how bad it hurts to think about it, it hurts more to imagine their lives broken by her not being there. He was a fool trusting her to understand that. But then maybe… he wasn’t.

She locks the door to 3B and she turns around. The door to 3A is open. Quinn’s frame is blocking the view. Almost. She can see Franny on the sofa setting up her chest board. She looks at Quinn. His eyebrows shoot up for a brief moment. He is not smiling. But he is relieved. He knows.

The distance between them is gone in a heartbeat. His arms are around her. Hers hands are clasping at the sides of his waist, not holding him, just clinging to him. He holds her closer. Until none of them can breathe. His head falls into the curve of her neck. He was scared. He still is. She wants to say she is sorry. But she can’t speak. _I’ll never hurt you. I’ll never let anything hurt you. I promise._ Her hands slide to his back, she pulls him closer. She feels herself dissolving into him. Disappearing. She needs it. She needs him.

“Peter,” she whispers, almost inaudible. And she doesn’t know where that came from. But it feels right. It’s the only thing she can manage. It’s not even his real name, she knows. But it’s the only one she ever cared for. She feels so exposed and so close to him. And something has changed. Something has been broken by that note. He is not Quinn right now. He is a man she will spend the rest of her life with. And she needs for it to be different. So she breaks it. She breaks one habit. Maybe just for now. Maybe just for this once. But it feels so right. She slides her hand to his shoulder, tender and soft. “Peter,” she whispers again, she can taste his name as it comes out of her, softly, gently sliding against her lips, she feels such joy she can't resist it. And she laughs. Not smiles. She laughs. There are still tears in that laughter.

His face still pressed against her neck and she can feel his smile. She can feel a short laughter he breathes on her skin, before pressing his lips to it, hard and desperate. He lifts his head, his hand coming to rest on her nape, his forehead touches hers.

“I like that,” he whispers back. And she can see he means it. She doesn’t know when, but this will be their new life. “I can get used to that.”

“Please… do,” she closes her eyes. Just standing there. Just breathing.

“You ok?” he asks after a long while, still not moving, holding her.

“Yeah,” she answers. And it’s not _better_ anymore. She means it.

He presses his lips to her forehead, stroking her hair, “C’mon, I’ll make some tea for you,” he doesn’t talk about where she has been. About what she was going to do. But he doesn’t move, either. He is caressing her face with tender little kisses. He needs to let her know it was ok. He needs her to know, he will always keep her safe. Even from herself.

“Peter,” she whispers once more, smiling. His lips tremble. He can’t have enough of it now. It’s so different. It’s so intimate, that he breaks all over again. And it’s all that takes for him to kiss her. He lets out a soft moan as he does. His eyes close. It’s not sensual. It’s not even tender. It’s an answer.  _I am right here._

He pulls back for just a brief moment, enough to breathe an “I love you,” against her lips, before covering them with his again. And it’s all there. All they are and all they will ever be. She doesn’t know how or when, but she knows they will get each other through this. Because the only unfinished job she has now is loving her family. She leans into his arms, into his kiss. She is home now. And she lets it all go.


	18. Last chapter addendum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't know what to say guys. I screwed up. I feel I left the last part of chapter 17 totally hollow. And it haunted me until I was able to fix it. I needed to show that pain and those demons eating alive at Carrie. Driving her to throw it all away once more. And I fucked it up the first time around. I wanted to make a new chapter of it, but it belongs in the old one.
> 
> Somehow, it was all in my head, as I was finishing the previous chapter. But then I read it yesterday, and i figured, you needed to be a houdini to sort through those few sentences and find all that. I dunno if it makes any sense. But it needed to be done.
> 
> So, forgive me for messing this up. Please go back and read the last part of chapter 17. It's new. But it's now a new chapter. I will leave this one blank. Didn't find any other way to let everyone know I made significant edits. Whoever wants to comment tot he end of the last chapter, can do it either here or there. 
> 
> Sorry, good people.
> 
> Garak

New addition to the previous chapter at the end of it. This one will remain blank. Fuck (I said... meaningfully).


	19. Dear Franny

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A reference to the story about how Franny got Hop and pilot wings can be found in a short story I wrote for the Halloween fic prompt, called Where He Came From.  
> You can find it here https://archiveofourown.org/works/12582516/chapters/28658656
> 
> Huge thank you to Gnomecat and NikitaSunshine for being my anchor in bringing this chapter to the condition it could be published in.  
> For every word you helped me find. For the friends you are. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

******************

_Dear Franny,_

_We’re crossing the border now. I’m sitting on the floor of an old truck. The terrain is rocky and there is barely enough light to see the paper._

_I used to write to Johnny, when I was away on a mission. He is my son. You never met him, and you probably never will. I hoped you would. I hoped for many things. I remember having a letter to him on every fucking piece of paper I could find, including some questionably clean napkins and, I think, there was even a folded tile of toilet paper. At least for now I still have this notepad. So, fingers crossed._

_I never mailed any of my letters to Johnny. And I know I will never send any of these to you. But they help me hold on to something besides where I am, or what I do. So, I have a pile of letters starting with ‘Dear John’ (ha) and now that pile will get even bigger. I used to have this image in my head, of a man finding my bag near my cold body. And he would read the letters I wrote to a boy I never knew. And, although he will never know who I am or who Johnny is, at least someone will remember._

_You’re six months old today. And you don’t care about any of this. I think, that’s why I can tell you anything I want. Because you will never know._

_I saw you with your aunt Maggie before I left for the airport. I think, she saw me too. I really wanted to come and say goodbye. But it was too hard. I know you won’t mind._

_I wrote a letter to your mom the other day. It came out kind of dark. Now that I think about it, I really hope she never gets to read it._

_I hope to see you soon. Because you helped me so much. I don’t think I ever had more hope for leaving this life behind than when I held you on my knees. There was more peace around your sweet little head than I had in a lifetime. And I think, even now, even knowing where I am heading, that I managed to snatch a piece of it and take it with me._

_Peter._

_****************_

There was a fan in the bathroom. Carrie looked at it for some time, before putting it away. She wiped the condensation from the mirror and leaned closer. She looked tired. There were bags under her red eyes, there were ugly pink spots all over her pale face from the hot water, and, above all, there were many tiny wrinkles on her forehead, in the corners of her eyes and her lips, and on her neck. She never cared much for seeing herself like that. On most days she would put on makeup even before looking in the mirror for the first time. She opened one of the drawers. There was some makeup in there. She had no idea if it was used or who left it behind after staying here. But that wasn’t why she never touched it.

There would come a day, when she would dress up for him. There would come a day when she would enjoy the look in his eyes, walking towards him in a stunning evening gown. There would be a day for everything. But, it wasn’t going to be today. Because today was about something so different. And, looking at her own true face in the mirror, she imagined waking up next to him, no makeup and no hairdo. Because today was about knowing, that those would be the times they’d both treasure most.

She took her lithium and swallowed it without water. Then she spilled the remaining pills onto her palm and counted them. She had enough for three more days. Carrie had four exit plans set up over the years, all only known to her, all had full cover identities for both her and Franny, all had a stash of pills she used. She still didn’t know where they would go come the morning. Quinn told her they needed to talk. He had a plan. Well, more than a plan. He had concerns about their current exit situation. And she wondered if his idea involved a fifth location, one she never planned for. It made her nervous. If there was one thing Carrie couldn’t handle and would never learn to, it was not being in full control of what was happening. She opened the faucet and splashed some cold water on her face. Then she looked up again, finding her own eyes in the mirror. Deep breaths helped. Thinking about trusting Quinn to help her figure it out helped more. How does one go from being so profoundly independent to placing their whole life in someone else’s hands? _Like this. Like I should have done years ago._

She put the bottle of pills back into her bag and took out the one with Xanax. She just started on it several months ago. It wasn’t as much to help her sleep, as it was to keep her new demons at bay. What Quinn didn’t know (what _nobody_ knew) was that half a year ago, after almost six years without a single episode, she found herself not being able to sleep. She used to lie in her dark bedroom and envision the day she would come for Dar Adal. She went over everything she was going to say to him. And every night she would find more. And every time she’d think about it, she would feel herself more and more anxious to get to that moment faster. Then she noticed something new. She had a routine now. She would go to bed, then get up, walk around the house, check all the windows, open and close all the drawers in the kitchen, open and close Franny’s door and then she would go to bed, only to wait a little, then get up and do all that over and over again. It had to be three times. Every single night. And if she couldn’t remember how many times she did it, she would start over. It calmed her down. It made her believe that if she did it right, in the same order, the same amount of times, it would all be alright. Nothing like this ever happened to her before. She consulted her psychiatrist and found out, that the growing anxiety brought a new friend into her already rich psychiatric history – a touch of an obsessive-compulsive behavior, which, in her condition, could only mean one thing – a manic episode was coming. This is how the Xanax started. She called it a “Fuck-It” pill. Because this is how it made her feel. She wouldn’t feel sleepy right away. But after twenty minutes or so, she would find herself completely indifferent to almost everything. And the number of times she went around her apartment wouldn’t matter anymore.

Carrie counted the Xanax as well. She had plenty left for at least a month. She held a pill on her palm and stared it down, as if daring it to compete with what her life had just become. _Fuck YOU_. She put it back and threw the bottle into her bag. Her ‘Xanax’ was sitting in the living room, both of them, laughing loudly and arguing about every chess move.

She leaned on the faucet counter, supporting her weight on her palms, and looked in the mirror again. People had a lot of things to say about the definition of home. So many quotes, so many songs. Almost everyone agreed, that home was more, than a place. Her house was miles away, it had everything she ever owned in it. It had the memories of her life. It had the smells she was used to. All her favorite colors. All the pictures of her and Franny from as far back as she could remember. Carrie wasn’t sure if she would ever see any of it again. And it didn’t matter. How can something that big and important not matter? Some people said, home was not a place, but the people in it. She was leaving behind almost everyone, who was ever in her life. And there was no way for her to know if she would ever be allowed to speak to any of them again. Come tomorrow, she was going to be on her own, in a place with people she didn’t know, with names that weren’t theirs, starting anew. There was never a doubt in her heart that this day would come. And it was one of those things she preferred not to think about, hoping to cross that bridge when they’d get there. And there they were, mere hours away from that new life she always both wanted and feared. But it wasn’t scary anymore. If she could come up with one saying about what home was _really_ about for her, she would probably pick something she read in a book a while ago, claiming that _perhaps home is not a place, but an irrevocable state._ She felt at peace. For the first time in so many years, her mind felt like an ocean after the storm, water completely still, not a breeze in the air, sun shining high and everything around her so quiet. She never remembered just _being_ , just _existing_ like she did now, in a single moment in time stretched over this evening, and then some more - knowing, being completely certain, that wherever they went tomorrow, they would be taking this moment along with them. This feeling, this _state_ , this _was_ home.

The door opened quietly, and she smiled as the voices became louder. She reached the corner and just stood there, stealing a quick peek, and allowing herself to muffle a small laugh.

“You can’t do that!” Franny’s finger was poking the back of Quinn’s hand, holding a chess piece on the board. “Knight doesn’t go like this!”

“Straight line and one to the side,” he defended himself, although not completely certain, but not surrendering nevertheless.

“ _Three_ on a straight line and then one to the side! This is four!”

“Oh…” awkward silence followed. “So here?”

“Or here, either side is fine.”

“Which one then?”

“How should I know? It’s _your_ move!”

“Damn…”

Carrie peeked in again. They were sitting on the sofa, both in their home clothes now, cross-legged and barefoot, a chess board in between. Franny was playing the dark (she always did), Quinn the light. There was a pile of light figures next to Franny’s feet, and there was _one_ black pawn in Quinn’s hand – a single casualty of a fight he was not going to win for a change. Carrie couldn’t see the situation on the board, but it was pretty clear he was losing miserably. She smiled, still not moving from her hiding place.

Their lives used to be an endless turmoil of creeping danger. She tried to remember if she _ever_ saw him so relaxed and at ease. Maybe on a day of her father’s funeral. He was always on his guard, ready to surge, ready to bolt, ready to fight. She wondered, if that man was still in there right now. His gun was within arm’s reach on a small lamp table next to the sofa behind his back. And it seemed so out of place in this serene reality. Carrie knew, that, come tomorrow he was going back to doing the only thing he ever knew how to. And she hoped this glimpse of life, that he always craved, would be his refuge in the long days and night to follow until Saul’s operation was over.

“Do you think mom is going to be hiding behind the corner much longer thinking we don’t know she is there?” she heard Quinn’s voice, suddenly.

And Franny’s dismissive reply, “Not after you gave away our knowledge of her tactical position.”

Carrie laughed out loud now, stepping into the living room and crossing the distance between them. She fell into the sofa behind her daughter and wrapped both arms around her, ducking her face in between her neck and shoulder and tickling her with many loud kisses, “You shameless black-ops suck-up you!”

Franny giggled, raising her shoulder in an attempt to push her away, “Mom, you’ll mess up the board.”

Carrie kissed her once more, the top of her head this time, “I saw a bag of those little marshmallows in the kitchen. How does a cup of hot chocolate sound?”

“Yes, please,” Franny leaned back into her arms, smiling happily. It was her favorite drink in the world.

“Coming right up,” Carrie moved away, but not before squeezing her between her arms again.

She picked up an empty blue mug from a coffee table and stepped closer to Quinn, “You? Same?” she ran her fingers through the dark spikes of his moist hair, making him look up. “Jesus, Quinn. You look so tired,” she leaned down and pressed her lips to his temple. “More coffee?”

His arm went around her legs and he pulled her closer, “For future reference, an answer to this question is always yes,” he smiled.

“Good to know,” Carrie laughed. “Be right back.”

But he didn’t let go of her. Instead, he freed his leg from being crossed underneath him, lowered his foot to the floor and pulled her onto his knee. His arm wrapped around her waist and Carrie curled at his side, worming hers around his neck, “Stay a bit?” he asked, looking up and meeting her for a soft kiss.

“Ok,” she smiled, resting her head on top of his. Then she looked at the board, seeing the gruesome tactical situation for the first time. She couldn’t help a laugh. “Quinn, you _suck_.”

He nodded, “No shi…“ then stopped, remembering Franny. Made a mental note to work on his vocabulary. “I _know_ ,” managed in the end with a deep sigh, yet making another move and not surrendering.

Carrie looked at the pieces again. Something just didn’t add up. And then she saw it. Tagging on his hair slightly, she tilted his head up. Her eyes narrowed, “You _did_ have to take chess as part of tactical training at the Farm. We _all_ did.”

She was good. Quinn smiled. Barely looking at the board, his face still towards her, he moved his bishop across the black checkered line. He turned to Franny, “Checkmate,” then to Carrie again. “Yeah, I did.”

Franny’s initial reaction was something on the lines of “You’re funny…”, she picked up her rook intending to execute her next move, but then her eyes went for her king’s situation and they opened wider with each passing second. Her king was done. The expression on her face went from a smile to confusion and then to a total shock.

Carrie smiled. Franny was as far from being a sour loser as they went. Max, who was apparently a chess prodigy at the age of 15, had no mercy with her. And yet, after each lost game, she tortured him to the point of exhaustion to explain his tactics. And the only thing that could stop her from playing rematch after rematch was a direct order to go to bed.

“Peter!!!” Franny finally exclaimed, her face is a curiosity painted over complete admiration. The tip of her little finger lingered for a moment over the top of her king’s figure, before decisively knocking it down. She looked at the pile of light pieces next to her feet, separating them one by one, her mind was rewinding the game, trying to figure out at which point she missed it.

Carrie dropped a loud kiss into Quinn’s hair and got up, “Good luck with the rematch. She won’t miss it twice, mind my word.”

“I know,” Peter rose after her and came close to Franny. He took her head into his palms and pressed his lips to her forehead. “I love you. And I am sorry. Think of it as the first day of your training,” he smiled when her face lit up. “A man, who taught me chess wasn’t nearly as good as Max. But he taught me, that your worst enemy can lie low and look beat waiting for you to let down your guard to strike hard. I don’t think I’d be alive today, if I didn’t pay attention that day. You gotta promise me you will never let down your guard again,” when she nodded, beaming, he squeezed her hand in between both of his. “Set up the board for the rematch. I’ll go make that hot chocolate for you. Consolation prize.”

Franny’s raised eyebrow was highly skeptical, “Do you know how to?”

“About time I learnt,” he kissed the back of her hand and walked to the kitchen.

Carrie’s face showed even more skepticism and disbelief than Franny’s, but she handed him the saucepan and a milk cartoon nevertheless.

“I boil the milk first… right?” Quinn tried to look less helpless than he felt.

Carrie laughed and turned on the ceramic stove, “Right. C’mere, put it on and pour the milk,” she took out two plates of chocolate, one dark and one milk. “Franny likes to mix both.”

“Got it,” he finished his first task and was now standing next to the stove staring down the milk with the fierceness of an operative on a stake-out. “Can I have mine with just the milk one?”

She stepped behind him, wrapped her arms around his waist and placed a kiss between his shoulder blades, “I don’t think it’ll taste very _chocolaty_ , but I don’t see why not. And I _certainly_ promise not to tell _Lilly_ about it.”

Quinn allowed himself a short laugh, breaking from a mission-hard seriousness and dedication he brought into watching the milk on the stove, then half turned, raised his arm and pulled her to his side, “Don’t go anywhere.”

“Afraid the milk will run?” Carrie laughed, looking at his serious face, eyes dead fixed on the pot.

“A little,” he admitted, pulling her closer.

“Here,” she handed him a pot holder. “When it starts simmering just lift it off.”

“Got it,” he nodded again. “But you stay here.”

Carrie lifted herself on her toes to reach him and placed a long, lingering, gentle kiss in the corner of his lips, “Right here,” she whispered, then slid down and molded her body along his side, half hidden under his armpit. She looked up on his smiling face and her grip around his torso tightened. “You’re the bravest man I know, Peter Quinn.”

She could feel a vibration of his laughter against her ribcage, hearing it inside his chest, even before it came out, “It’s the damndest thing, isn’t it, Carrie?” he lowered his head to press his cheek to the top of hers, keeping the angle to allow himself to watch the pot, and he reached with his fingers deep inside her hair. He knew _exactly_ what she was talking about. And it wasn’t nearly about more than twenty years of fighting a clandestine war all over the globe. It was _this_ \- taking a first step into a normal life, leaping head first into this kitchen, and not into a hail of bullets – _this_ , they both knew, was always going to be his proudest moment.

 

************************

_Dear Franny,_

_There we go – I am writing on a napkin again. I think it’s clean, though. Can’t be sure in this place._

_It’s your second birthday today. And I missed it again. I can’t help wondering what you look like now. You’re probably walking and talking and asking tons of questions. Your mom is very smart though, so I don’t think you will ever have a problem on that front. I miss her. And I miss you, too. I think there is a seven hours time difference between where I am and where you guys are. Although, I have no idea where you are right now. It’s been a year and a half. And it’ll probably be much longer before I can go home._

_But I hope you had a great party. I didn’t get to buy a present for you this year. Things have been really hectic here. But I still have the one I got for your birthday last year. And it’s sitting right here, looking at me, and listening to my stories about you with those long fluffy ears. He is very brave. And he’s been a real friend to me. He is also getting suspiciously good at assembling a rifle. I’ll be sad to let him go one day. But I’ll be happy, too, because he was always meant for you._

_Need to go now, my dear. My watch starts in less than ten minutes and it’s a hike to the surveillance spot. See you soon._

_Peter._

_***************************_

 

 

Franny and Quinn played another two rounds. Franny demolished him on both. She was very good, and she never let down her guard again. He really tried, never giving up, never letting her believe for one second he would disrespect a worthy opponent by letting her win. He fought with all he had. And he lost with a bow of his head. And with a promise to get better.

It was time to make dinner then. Carrie had an idea, but she was outvoted. Two against one it was decided, that Franny and Quinn would make dinner, while she would rest. She had concerns about that plan, but they were very determined, and she let it happen, thinking, worst case scenario the dinner wouldn’t be perfect. Or they would have a lot of cleaning to do. Realizing how small those things were compared to everything all of them had been through. She splashed on the sofa and watched them, smiling, laughing. They were loud and adorable. Franny was bossing him around, but at the same time she was pliant and tender. Carrie thought that Franny was a mastermind manipulator with a nose of a hound when it came to picking up on weaknesses she could exploit. But she had met her match. And Carrie laughed hard seeing that at some point she got in his face just a tad too much and was unceremoniously picked up with one hand and remained in the air, away from the kitchen counter, while he was doing what he wanted with his other hand, without letting her interfere. Franny was giggling and trying to get away. _Good luck with that_ , Carrie thought, and with that image her eyes began to close. She just wanted to rest them for a second, but, before she knew it, she woke up feeling a cover being pulled on top of her, and she realized she dozed off, smiling when his hand gently stroked her hair and his lips touched the side of her head. She heard him whisper _I love you so much_ and she mumbled that she did too, _so much_ , and she drifted off again.

She woke up the time after that when they came to get her for dinner. She had her eyes still closed, when she heard Franny saying that _mom looks like a sleeping beauty_. She tried her best not to smile, just listening and waiting to see what would come out of it. Franny _never_ liked fairytales, not even as a baby. She was wondering how the sleeping beauty image was even possible for her. But then Quinn agreed and said he better do what needs to be done to wake her up. She felt his breath touching her face before his lips softly pressed against hers, and then she kissed him back, for real, all the way and passionately, her arms coming to pull him closer, taking _his_ breath away for once, and enjoying him muffle a soft moan. His steely blue eyes were near, when she reluctantly pulled away and opened hers. Franny giggled and ran away to set up the table. And Quinn rubbed his nose against her cheek and whispered that it was very dangerous what she just did. And that he had a lot of self-control, but it was seriously… _seriously_ running out.

The story about that dinner was long, loud and colorful. And so was the kitchen. It looked a little like a restaurant kitchen at the end of the day, the only difference being, that the single thing that was cooked there was a huge amount of Mac and Cheese. Although, she understood, that, at some point, there was even more. But, as they were tasting it, it got to the point where there was a need to replenish it with a new bunch. It did taste good, though. It was one of Franny’s favorites. The question about whether it was one of Quinn’s remained open ended. The only thing Carrie could tell for sure right now, was, that an answer to the question of whether he was hungry or not, much like with coffee, was always going to be ‘yes’. She realized, with some sadness crossing her mind, how little she really knew about him. But then she smiled, thinking that maybe they did have it backwards, as opposed to most people, but she knew him well enough to be sure that her heart and her home would always be safe in his hands, and figuring out everything else was just a matter of time.

They tidied up the kitchen together, laughing and talking, about everything and about nothing. They were wondering what movie to watch after that. Carrie and Franny seemed to have some gap as to what movies and series Franny was allowed to watch and what she actually was watching without her mother knowing. Killing Max was suggested (for letting her watch them), then overruled.

“ _When you play the game of thrones you win, or you die!_ How can anyone _not_ like it, mom? You just watched the one episode and you think you know what it’s about!” Franny defended her latest passion.

“I don’t have to! It’s violent and I told you not to watch it!”

“Because it’s violent? And the work you did wasn’t?”

“I didn’t do my work when I was 9 years old.”

“Oh, so I can _know_ about the violent things going on, but I can’t watch it on TV?”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Carrie scoffed, “that’s not the point and you _know_ it. You _asked_ if you could watch it. I _watched_ the first episode and told you _no_ , but then you went ahead and apparently finished the whole series. _That’s_ what I’m mad about.”

Franny came closer and wrapped her arms around her mother’s waist, lifting a shamelessly sweet face to meet her eyes, “You’re not _really_ mad at me.”

“Really, Fran? _Really???_ Do I look like Max or Saul that you think _this_ will work on me?” Carrie kept the sternest face she could ever manage with her daughter. But she couldn’t help sliding her fingers through her soft red curls. “I said _no_. And we’re definitely not watching that sh… series tonight.”

“But I think Peter would really like it!”

 _Great, Franny, go ahead and use Quinn against me_. Carrie could see how _those_ arguments were going to go over the years. Seeing Quinn’s head turn to them, she gave him a look of _don’t you dare help her out of it._

“What’s the deal with this thrones game anyway?” he just asked, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel.

“ _Game of Thrones_ ,” Franny corrected, meaningfully. “It’s a _great_ show. About brave people, loyal people. It shows the best and the worst in people for _real_. Not like those cheesy Hollywood movies.”

Carrie rolled her eyes, turning to Quinn, “It’s about a bunch of people getting naked, having sex, then getting dressed and killing each other,” and she regretted that description the moment she made it. One of his eyebrows just shot up. _Hmmmmm_. “Oh, don’t you _fucking_ dare, Quinn!” was her attempt to salvage the situation, and she actually said it out loud. Her hand flew to her mouth to cover it, looking at Franny. But it was all lost now. And they were all laughing until their eyes started to tear.

Saved by the bell. Quinn’s burner rang, and he looked at the caller id, still laughing and catching his breath. Max. He had been waiting for that call, a little worried. There were things they had to talk about. All of them. He headed towards the balcony, but not before stopping next to Carrie. He leaned close to her ear, “It’s my _fucking_ friend,” he whispered, imitating her latest argument fiasco, cracking up again, then briefly pulled her close and kissed her, his other arm wrapped around Franny’s shoulders. “Don’t kill each other. I’ll be right back,” then he looked at Franny. “How about Top Gun?”

“Yesssssss!!!!! I _LOVE_ Top Gun!!!” she ran to the TV to set it up.

Peter smiled. _I know_.

Carrie rolled her eyes again, sighing deeply. She looked at Quinn and kissed him again, “ _Thank you_. And take your coat.”

He pushed the call button and brought the phone to his ear, “My future wife is bossing me around,” he said to Max without hello. And was punched for it. And had his coat thrown at him. And she didn’t throw like a girl.

Max was standing at the hospital entrance, smoking. When he heard the first words coming from his phone, he moved it away from his ear and looked at the number he dialed, frowning skeptically. No, it _was_ Quinn.

He chuckled. The image in his mind was very vivid, “Been _there_. You’re on your own, man,” he mastered, wondering how easy it came just chattering with Quinn now.

“That so?” the voice came back, and he heard a door open and close. There was some background noise of the outside now, too. “Guess who’s on his own for letting Franny watch Game of Thrones then?”

“Fuck,” very expressive, and _very_ concerned.

“Your death was discussed. In details.”

“Thanks for the heads up,” Max lit up another cigarette. “Can you please make her happy by the time I get there?”

“Depends,” the reply followed swiftly. “When we get back here, in a couple of days, we’ll have to set up a new safe house and will have some time before Saul’s out. _Fuck_ it’s freezing outside. You got Game of Thrones?”

“Sure do.”

“Ok. So, you get _that_ , I’ll get the popcorn.”

“ _Not_ a good idea. Popcorn and Game of Thrones is a choking hazard.”

“Fine. Beer and... something.”

“Sure. But you get her off my back,” Max laughed. “Are we having a small talk on a burner phone?”

“Fucked up, I know,” Quinn took out a cigarette of his own and did his best to light it up. “So, how’s Saul?”

“Well, what I texted you earlier… and now he had been moved to an intermediate unit. He’s… well, he’s being Saul. Cheerful and paranoid.”

Quinn chuckled at that, “Thanks for doing this, Max. Sorry it fell on you.”

“Hey, we were lucky we could spare _someone_. Besides, he’s fine. It was kinda weird - him waking up. He had some… weird dreams. They really shouldn’t give ketamine to spies,” he thought about it for a while, remembering their conversation. It was long and hard on them both. And it was full of realizations, some of which weren’t new to Max, but all of which were equally disturbing. “Hey, he asked me to tell you something. He said you asked him a question this morning. He told me to tell you, the answer is ‘yes’”

Quinn’s face grew dark. His jaws clenched hard. On some level he already knew that. He said nothing, just staring ahead.

“Can I venture a guess?” Max voice came through after a while of bleak silence.

“Fucking go ahead,” Quinn heard himself answering.

Max did. And he was right. He asked if Quinn was going to do something about it. He didn’t really expect an answer. But he got one anyway. And it made him shiver.

“I want to help,” he said, surprising himself.

“I know,” Quinn felt himself smiling sadly. He didn’t want Max’s help. He wanted him there _with_ him. “We’ll get them. All of them.”

“Good,” Max nodded. Then he remembered the other things they needed to talk about. “So, I did what you asked. Made it look like clerical error.”

“Ok, thanks. And the other thing?”

“I followed that digital trail. You were right. I just don’t understand, how on earth did you know they would do that?”

Quinn let his head hang low. How do you explain _that_? Simple, “That’s what _I_ would do.”

Sometimes Max forgot what Quinn really did for a living. Well, he didn’t exactly forget, it was more of a real-life denial compartmentalization thing. And today, of all days, he really didn’t want to think of him as a trained assassin. Five years of remembering the good things was a long time.

As if answering his thoughts Quinn’s voice said, “That’s what I do, Max.”

“I know,” Max looked up. The rain halted some time ago, and he could make up some stars in a small clearing in the clouds. “I’m just glad you won’t be doing it for much longer, I guess.”

“Yeah, me too,” Quinn shivered. “Ok, I’m a fucking popsicle. Need to go back inside. Will you be much longer? We saved some mac and cheese for you.”

Max felt his stomach answer the question of whether he was hungry or not. It was a loud and gurgling ‘fuck, yes’, “That’s something to live for.”

“I helped making it,” Quinn clarified.

“Oh wow… was it served in a can?”

“Fuck _you_ , Max. I’m finishing it off now.”

Max laughed and was about to go back in, when he remembered something else. “Got simulator X installed for you. You told them yet? ‘Cause once you start playing on that thing, _your future wife_ _WILL_ figure it out.”

“Was about to, after dinner.”

“See you in an hour. Don’t touch my food.”

They clicked off and Quinn was back inside, heavily falling on the glass door and closing it with a weight of his frozen body. Carrie stood next to him with a cup of hot tea and a look he preferred not to interpret. It read somewhere in between ‘I can’t be mad at you and I hate you for that’ and ‘right, next time, by all means, leave your coat inside’. In his head he chose the former and decided to give her a nod and a smile to be on the safe side. He wasn’t sure touching her with ice cold hands would improve his chances. So, he wrapped his palms around the hot cup and started a slow defrosting process. It helped, when Carrie stepped closer, her eyes shining with deep warmth and adoration, and softly slid her hand to the small of his back. She watched him take a small careful sip from a scorching tea, and he felt the tips of her fingers slowly travel up the line of his spine, reaching his neck, and then down again, a wave of heat following every inch of her touch and spreading deep inside him.

“So,” she said, at last, slightly pushing with her hand, just enough to bring him close enough against her, “did you convince Max to show you the Game of Thrones?”

Quinn had to pull away from his tea to laugh at that, “Carrie,” was all he answered, a little surprised, but mostly amused. The feeling of her just seeing through him like that, not as a colleague for a change, but as a woman, who loved him, was so unfamiliar, and yet so deeply touching, that he allowed himself to fall into it, head first.

“Sure, Quinn, wife out of the country, boss in the hospital… boys gotta have fun _sometime_ ,” she added and that earned her a kiss over a steaming cup of tea, and a hand on the back of her neck, holding her in place, while his lips held her breath.

A minute later they were all on the sofa, a soft throw blanket covering the three of them, Franny curled next to Quinn, her arm around his torso, Carrie at his other side, her legs tucked underneath her. It was briefing time, finally, and he was serious, as he started telling the people he loved more than anything in the world about the plan he put together to keep them safe. Well, not really _telling_ , but typing the story inside his burner’s text messenger window, because, no matter how many times Max told him the safe house was ‘clean’, he could never be paranoid enough when it came to their safety. Carrie had to roll her eyes at that and shake her head, but Franny thought it was _sooooo coooooolllll_ and Peter pressed her against him tighter and placed a kiss deep inside of his teammate’s auburn curls.

 

***************************

_Dear Franny,_

_I can’t believe how big you’ve gotten since I last saw you. I mean, what was I thinking, right?_

_I got home just a couple of weeks back. Had some business to tend to. And from the way the things are looking, I’ll be soon going back to where I’ve been for the last 28 months. But I found some time to come and see you and your mom. They told me you were gone now. So, I walked straight to this guy, who could make things happen, and I asked if he needed help in Europe. I flew in yesterday and I found you early this morning, when your mom was taking you to school on her bike._

_I don’t think I was ever this happy and this sad at the same time. You have a family now. And it’s great. This guy, Jonas, he seems really nice. And he seems to be really good to the both of you. She really got out, didn’t she? Good for her._

_I have some things to do here today, which I can’t tell you about, but I’ll be taking a late train to Ramstein. There is an American air force base there and a buddy of mine promised to give me something, which will go really nicely with your Halloween costume. Top Gun? Really? I can’t say I am surprised. It’s a long ride, about seven hours in one direction. But I should be back before tomorrow evening. And I can’t wait to see you. I feel like I’ve known you for so long. But you’ll never know who I am. It’s fucked up. But at least you will finally get to have your first birthday present. And your pilot wings._

_I think we will have to say hello and goodbye then. But it makes it easier knowing, that I’ll be the only one being sad about it._

_I’ll probably keep writing to you. But I don’t think I’ll have that hope for much longer. I followed Jonas today and he bought an engagement ring. I hope she says yes. He’s a good man. For both of you. He’ll make you happy._

_But I’ll keep an eye on you from time to time as you grow up. And make sure you always stay safe. You were my total reset point in the darkest of places. And I will always be grateful for that._

_Peter._

_*************************_

 

Quinn opened the cold water and ran it until it became chilly as ice. Then he let it cool his hands and splashed his palms over his face. His breathing was strained, his heart pumping way too fast, and his radial pulse felt as a thin pulsating thread against his fingertips. It wasn’t something he never experienced before. He was panicking. It happened to him several times over the course of his life. So, he knew not to dismiss it, but let it wash over him for a short while, before pulling himself together. This was what he was taught to do a long time ago, somewhere half way into his training. An operative should never just ignore the feeling of being scared. Everyone got scared. Doing what he did he knew that all too well. There was nothing more dangerous, than ignoring this feeling and letting it stay. Like so many things in his job, this, too, had to be dealt with. You had to know your fear, where it came from, how strong was its hold over you, you had to let it have you, because only by giving into it, you could turn an irrational feeling into something you could consciously put into the right perspective.

The _right perspective_ was a bitch, though. Because he wasn’t leading a group of trained soldiers into the line of fire. He was taking two people who meant everything to him into a situation, which was both gravely dangerous and unsettlingly uncertain. _Fuck me_. He splashed some more cold water on his face and waited for the fear to settle in, in anticipation to crash it and move on.

Instead, the door to the bathroom opened, and, before he could turn around, Carrie was standing next to him, her hand leaning on the sink counter. He couldn’t deal with both her being here and governing his emotions right now, but he gave her a faint smile and managed to say, that he was going to be _right out_.

“Quinn, this is not gonna work,” she said, instead of leaving him be, and it made his panic hit so hard, that he actually shivered.

“You said…” his voice husky and trembling, he couldn’t finish a sentence.

“I know, what I said. And it’s _not_ what I am talking about,” Carrie wasn’t smiling, her tone was harsher than he could take right now. But he took a deep breath and waited for her to clarify. “This romantic sentimental _shit_ you’ve been doing, it’s gotta _stop_. Because you’ll get us all killed.”

“ _SHIT???_ ” was the only thing he managed, deeply appalled, feeling anger replacing the fear. His eyes turned pale grey and his pupils blew wide. He was searching her face for a clue of it being a dumb joke, but, as he didn’t find any, his jaws clenched hard. “You think it’s a _joke_ to me?”

“I think you’ve lost all perspective, yeah,” she didn’t budge. “It’s not a family vacation, Quinn, it’s an extraction plan. And the only chance it stands of succeeding is if it’s carried out by an experienced operative, and not an emotional mess of a man who has tunnel vision on the people he loves.”

“What???” he couldn’t be sure if it made him feel more angry or offended, but his face reflected both, as he stepped back, away from her. “Is that really what you think? What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?”

Carrie lifted her hand to cover his, but he moved it away, his eyes wide open, staring her down, genuine hurt and disbelief written all over his face.

“Look,” she sighed, her voice softer now, “you said you needed me to tell you if this plan is solid. And I told you – it is. It’s risky and dangerous. And it’s last minute. But I told you and I meant it – I’m in. And you know me better than to lie to you on something like this. Not when it has all our lives on the line. But you want me to tell you, that I trust you, and for so many reasons I can’t.”

“Oh… fucking _many_ reasons,” Quinn felt himself more at a loss right now than he could ever remember. He wasn’t sure what he was going to say next, but, whatever it was, choked in his throat, forming a hard knot of helpless rage. He felt a wave of something resembling self-pity wash over him, remembering all the times he went head first to protect her, and there was probably nothing in the world he despised more than self-pity, so, the mere realization of it made him even angrier. She was the last person he _ever_ expected to hear _that_ from. He wasn’t sure in that moment what would hurt him more, never having her love him, or hearing her say she didn’t trust him. The last time she made him feel this way, all he could manage was _Fuck you… No, really, Carrie, FUCK YOU_. But that was a long time ago. And being so close to her now, so open, made it both easier and harder to deal with. But it _did_ make it possible for him to utter “Carrie, when did I _ever_ do _anything_ to earn _that_?”

“You ever thought of what it means, when people say ‘I trust you’?” Carrie raised her voice, leaning closer. “It means, it’s ON YOU, _all_ of it. And I think it’s the biggest selfish bullshit anyone can say to their partner. Because, Quinn, it’s _not_ just on you. _That’s_ what I’m saying. I won’t put this on your shoulders. You came to _me_ to ask if your extraction plan could succeed. You needed me to be a part of that choice. And you were right to. So, It’s on _both_ of us now. I won’t have you feeling solely responsible for the safety of your family. Not tomorrow morning, and not _ever_. So, get _that_ through your fucking scull. I am walking into this _with_ you, _because_ your plan is solid, _because_ it can work, and _because_ it’s our only chance to get out of this in one piece. _And_ because I couldn’t have come up with a better plan myself. Definitely not in such short time. And I am willing to put my life and my daughter’s life, _and_ , what you keep _forgetting_ for some reason, a life of a man, who’s the _love_ of my life, into the hands of the best fucking operative I’ve _ever_ worked with. And what I’m saying is, _none_ of us stands a chance if you see us as _anything_ other than the people you have to arrange a safe passage for. I can’t trust the man you are for me and Franny to pull this off, Quinn. I need your head operational - no feelings, no wondering how many things can go wrong, no shaking at the thought you can lose your whole world if anything goes wrong. I need a man I worked with, a man so sharp and centered, that I could trust his judgment to keep me focused if I lost it.”

Quinn exhaled sharply. Her words worked better than the cold water. He felt himself go numb and relax, every single muscle of his body just giving in. He took one step towards her and pushed her against the wall, gripping her wrist with one hand, while his other one tilted her head upwards, his lips crashing into hers, both forceful and helpless, letting both his anger and relief break against that wall. Then he pulled away, still not smiling, looking deep into her eyes.

“Let’s go over the ‘love of your life’ bit again, Carrie,” he breathed hard, the roughness of his touch giving way to tenderness, sliding his face against hers. “You fucking couldn’t start with _that_?”

“And yet, it’s the _only_ thing you seemed to hear,” she smiled against his kiss, inhaling the breath of his laughter. Then she became serious again and her hand came to rest on his nape. “It’ll work, Quinn. We’ll make it work. Because in the field, we know each other, and we trust each other. Because we were a team before we were a family. So, we will be a family, _now_. Until five am tomorrow morning. And then we will be two operatives working together, like we always were. Cold hearted and focused. So that we can have a chance to be a family again, when you come home.”

He smiled and nodded, pressing his forehead to hers, closing his eyes for a moment. He wondered if he should say what he was thinking, reflecting on the years they worked together, remembering the arguments, the pain, the anger, the discontent, but yet so much trust - often unexplained, but always explicit to the end. And then he did say it, because it was the truth, “I miss it, Carrie. Working with you. It was fucked-up and angry and messy, but I fucking miss it.”

“Yeah,” Carrie leaned into him, resting her head against his chest. “But I don’t miss a hobby you made out of always finding new fucked-up ways to get yourself killed in the process and I don’t miss wondering if I’d get a chance to talk you out of it.”

Quinn took her hand and pressed his lips into her palm. He wanted to say he was sorry, but then thought better of it. This love, this life - rendered it all _beyond_ empty meaningless words. And, because it was all that really mattered now, but also because he knew she’d understand what he meant, he simply said, “I’ve got a new hobby now, Carrie,” as if to prove his point, he opened the bathroom door, and, still holding her hand, led her into the living room, where Franny started jumping up and down in anticipation of finally watching Top Gun.

He sat on the sofa, letting them both curl at his sides, pushed ‘play’, and sank deeper, wrapping one arm around Franny, and lowering himself enough to be able to put his head on Carrie’s shoulder. He felt her fingers wandering through his hair, aimless and soft, her cheek resting against his temple, and he imagined this day being just another day in their lives. One of those days, that wouldn’t start by waking up on the floor in a lonely safe house, eating a can of tuna for breakfast, while setting up your surveillance equipment. He imagined waking up in a brightly lit bedroom, hearing the noise of Franny’s footsteps outside, smiling before opening his eyes, reaching out and finding a woman next to him, pulling her in for a long-long kiss and knowing that the only thing that can top the feeling of her against him was what they would do when they got out of bed and started another day, knowing that he was allowed it now – real life, real love. Carrie asked if they would like some popcorn. He looked up, squeezing her hand, and said if she moved one inch he was going to shoot her. And when she said _been there, done that_ , he didn’t let the feeling of intense regret take over him like it did every time he remembered that night, seeing her through the scope of a rifle, cursing his terrors away, begging her to stop, and then taking a shot anyway, because he was the only one he could trust to do that. He turned his head to her shoulder, pulled up her short sleeve with his nose and did what he wanted to do for so many years – he pressed his lips to that scar. He didn’t say he was sorry, because they both knew he had an identical scar on his heart since that night. And he realized that it was the very first of many times, when they would talk about it and it wouldn’t be a part of a baggage they both carried, but a part of their lives, something they both shared, something they both lived through, one of the many things that made today possible. Carrie smiled and stroked his hair as he just stayed like this, his eyes closed, his lips on her shoulder. Then she leaned in and whispered in his ear the only thing _she_ ever wanted to tell him about what he did for her that night “Thank you”.

 

*******************************

_Dear Franny,_

_Six months ago, I died._

_You’re probably too young to be remembering me when you grow up. And, given the hell I’ve put you through the last time we met, I am glad you won’t. I promised to keep you safe. And I ended up causing people to take you away from your home, and from your mother. I don’t remember how this happened. It’s all a blur now. Everything that happened before. I have dreams about it, though. They are all very bad._

_I dream that people came to hurt you and I had to protect you. But I can’t find you. And people outside of your house are starting to pour in. I know I have to take you to a safe place. But you’re gone._

_A man came to see me last night. He told me he needed my help with this thing he’s doing. And he told me about what happened to you because of me._

_I am so sorry. I have caused much grief to the people I cared about. But I never thought I would end up hurting YOU._

_There is this woman where I am now, she is trying very hard to help me. But you and I both know, she can’t. I used to be a killer. But I used to have hope. Now I am a man who can’t tell a reality from a dream. And I ended up crashing every hope I ever had._

_I had to say goodbye to you and your mother last night. Because I can’t have you hurt because of what I have become._

_I’ll miss talking to you, even if it was just in letters. And I will be holding you in my heart for the rest of my life._

_I love you, Franny._

_Peter._

_*******************************_

 

Franny fell asleep before Goose died. And Quinn was grateful for that. No matter how many times he watched that movie, that part always broke him a little. And he really didn’t want to be sad today.

He knew she was asleep before he looked down. Her breathing against his chest changed, it became deep and slow, her head on his shoulder slid down a little, and her arm, wrapped around his torso went limp and dropped to his lap. He let out a soft gasp as it did, and he looked at Carrie, a little helpless, but mostly just overwhelmed by the sudden rush of serenity washing over him.

“She does that all the time,” Carrie smiled. “You can let her sleep. We’ll take her to bed when the movie is over or when Max gets here. Whichever comes first,” then she noticed that how stiff and frozen he was, afraid to make the slightest movement, and she kissed his head. “She won’t wake up if you move, and you should _definitely_ keep breathing.”

Quinn looked at Franny’s head, hanging in an awkward angle, and he freed his hand from Carrie’s, “No, we should take her in now,” he whispered.

“Ok, I’ll go make the bed. Give me a minute before you bring her in,” she pressed her lips to his cheek and then to her daughter’s head on his chest, and got up.

“Carrie, wait,” he stopped her, “how do I…” he motioned with his eyes to Franny’s limp body curled under his armpit.

“Just pick her up and carry her to bed,” Carrie smiled, a warm feeling spreading over her as she realized she was giving Quinn the first parenting advice.

“What if she wakes up?” he was unconvinced.

“So she wakes up,” she balanced herself on her knee to wrap her arm around his neck again. “She’ll go back to sleep once she’s in bed. Don’t worry. Do you want _me_ to take her?”

“No,” he shook his head. “I want to.”

“Ok,” Carrie touched her fingers to his chin and lifted his head to place a soft kiss in the corner of his lips. “I’ll see you inside,” she whispered and walked away.

Peter looked down. He really didn’t feel like moving.  He could fall asleep right here, holding her, feeling her heartbeat blending into his own. Then he let his mind become a little more practical, and he considered all the ways he could scoop her up into his arms, so he could carry her to bed. And they all felt like heaven. So, he just did the most natural one of all, he left his left arm underneath her and laced his right underneath her knees.

“There we go,” he whispered, standing up and holding her against his chest. He leaned in to kiss her forehead, but then Franny stirred in her sleep and wrapped her arms around him, her sleepy face burying deep into his neck. And he felt his legs shake a little.

“Peter,” he heard her murmur from underneath his chin, “did Goose die already?”

“No,” he assured her, tightening the grip of his arms. “Goose is very much alive and happy singing “Great Balls of Fire” with Maverick.”

She giggled, a soft and sleepy sound, and she sighed happily. Then she rubbed her nose against his neck, “And you’re alive, too.”

“Yeah,” Quinn felt the tears snatch his breath.

“Remind me to give you something tomorrow before we lift off,” she remembered suddenly, raising her head.

“Sure,” he smiled, kissing the tip of her nose. “But now you go to sleep.”

“You’ll be flying the plane… and I have real pilot wings, like the ones in Top Gun,” she was never good at keeping surprises, and she just gave it away, not being able to contain it anymore.

“Do you?” his eyebrows raised slightly, and his smile changed to touch an edge of something mysterious and cherished beyond words. “Don’t you remember who gave them to you?”

Franny’s sleepy eyes opened fully. Everything became really-really quiet. She looked at Peter’s face and could see him waiting for her to solve the puzzle, the one puzzle she never really tried to figure out. And she could see the time of her life forming a circle in her mind, a series of event dots forming a line that went round-and-round until it came back to the same moment. This moment. _That_ moment. She was a little girl again, sad a lonely, walking besides a man, who was always kind to her, but who was also a stranger, just the way everyone else in her life was back then. His name was Jonas, she remembered _that_. He kept in touch with her mother, mostly for Franny, for some years afterwards. She remembered feeling like the only American kid being left without a real Halloween celebration. She was wearing her costume, but no one seemed to notice how special it was for her. Or notice at all. And then a man stopped them on their track. He was an American, too. And that alone made her day a little brighter. But then he crouched down in front of her and told her that he thought her costume was incredibly cool. And he told her to go ahead and trick-or-treat. And when she did, he gave her the two things she cherished the most growing up – Hop and a dark metallic pin of pilot wings. Growing up, she thought about him very often. And she had that pin attached to every school bag she ever owned. She imagined that he was a real pilot himself, because how else would he have the pilot wings on him. Saul told her, that her father was a soldier. But she always imagined he was a pilot. She had a secret that she carried with her all those years – whenever she imagined her father, in her thoughts, he was _that_ man, long way from home, just like her, who gave her a bunny whom he got for his own daughter. And in her fantasies, she _was_ his daughter. She didn’t remember his face very well, but she remembered his eyes, and his name. And, although she knew her father’s name was Nicholas, it was _his_ name that she often told the kids when she was asked for the name of her father. And she now saw _his_ eyes just inches from her face, there was the same smile in them, just like the one that made her feel warm on that chilly day, and they were waiting for her to remember. Her memory brought her almost here, along the circle, back to this building just several hours ago. _And you know what else? My name is not really Peter. It’s…_

“John,” she whispered, her face twitching, her eyes filling with tears, as she felt his arm pushing her up, making it easier for her to really hold him, and she could feel his breathing becoming as ragged as her own, because sometimes happiness is just too much.

Carrie’s voice sounded like something coming from a whole different plane of existence, “There is my sniffing black-ops team,” they turned around to see her standing nearby, her arms crossed on her chest, her left eyebrow slightly raised. “What is it _this time?_ ”

Quinn looked at Franny and saw her shake her head, barely noticeable. Her mother didn’t know. And he agreed that it wasn’t the best time to bring her up to speed. He turned his eyes Carrie, “I’m sorry, mam. You don’t have the security clearance to be briefed on this one.”

Carrie rolled her eyes and laughed, then she extended her arm in the direction of a guest bedroom and stretched out an index finger, “Bed. _Now._ ”

Quinn obeyed, but, passing next to her, muttered “Bossy,” and squinted his eyes.

“Peter _Pan_ ,” she hissed back, following them into the bedroom.

The moment Franny’s head hit the pillow, her eyes were closing again. It’d been a long day, and, despite fighting her sleepiness, she felt herself giving in. When her mother sat next to her and tucked her in, she reached for her hand, like she did every night, and brought it next to her face.

“I love you as much as there are grains of sand in all the oceans in the world,” she mumbled, smiling, following their everyday routine.

“I love you as much as there are stars and planets in all the galaxies,” Carrie leaned in and gave her a long lingering kiss.

“I love you as much as there are bits in all the words in all the languages in the world,” that was something new (there almost always was something new Franny would think up during the day).

Carrie knew she was going to sound dumb, whatever she asked, so she just went for it, “Is that some geeky thing I’ll have to ask Max to explain?”

Franny giggled and closed her eyes, tucking her face into her mother’s hand, “Yep. And it’s A LOT.”

“Ok,” Carrie kissed her again, on the ear this time, and whispered “Sweet dreams, my angel.”

“Night, mom,” Franny smiled without opening her eyes at first, but then she tugged on her mother’s hand. “Where’s Peter?”

“Hiding behind the door,” Carrie winked at her. And the stream of light coming from the living room was blocked by a figure appearing in the door frame. “I’ll let you two whisper some more,” she pressed her lips to Franny’s cheek, stood up and smiled, seeing Quinn already standing by the bed.

She touched her hand to the side of his face, waiting for him to meet her for a brief kiss, “Just when I thought I couldn’t possible love you more,” she smiled, sliding her palm across his chest as she walked away, leaving them to spend some more time discovering a world, that was so new for them both, but that seemed to contain them completely all the same.

The truth was, she knew about the pilot wings. And about Hop. She was mad at Jonas at the time for allowing her baby daughter to talk to complete strangers, let alone accepting gifts from them. But then, a couple of weeks later, she found the pilot wings. And she knew it wasn’t a stranger they met that day. It was someone, who kept tabs on her. Someone, who couldn’t let go. Someone, who probably went to a lot of trouble to get that damn pin for her daughter, when he found out she was going to wear the fighter pilot costume. Someone who was there, in that park, just to make her daughter smile. Someone, who was at the time in a hospital waking up from a deep coma, having trouble remembering his own name.

She stole one more look at them, feeling her heart flutter at the sight of Quinn sitting on the bed, balancing himself on his left hand across Franny’s small frame, while his right hand was in between her daughter’s, next to her smiling face. Carrie stood behind the door and listened to their voices. And her life was taking a turn into direction, she never imagined possible. Not even after everything that had happened today.

“Will you stay?” Franny could barely keep her eyes open anymore. “Until I fall asleep?”

His hand still clasped firmly in between hers, he freed his thumb and touched it to her nose, “You got it, partner.”

She smiled, a real shining wide smile, and pressed her forehead to the side of his hand. Peter watched that smile slowly fade away, as the muscles of her face started to relax, and he listened to her breathing becoming slower and slower, waiting for it to hit that deep rhythmical lazy pattern. He could get used to this - watching her fall asleep every night. He _wanted_ to get used to this. In fact, he wished he could take some of this time back. He missed almost fourteen years of his son’s life, and god knew how much longer it was going to be before it would be safe for him to make contact. Whenever he thought about it now, it made him so profoundly happy and yet so deeply sad. He missed his son’s childhood. There was nothing he could do about it now. But there was still some of Franny’s left. She didn’t need bedtime stories anymore, but she wanted to hold his hand. Or just to have him sit on the side of her bed. With astonishment he realized that he had a list in his head, of all the things she liked or disliked, and he couldn’t remember when he started putting it together. But he found himself making a mental note, that she liked him staying with her as she fell asleep. And it made him smile. And he stayed.

 

****************************

_Dear Franny,_

_I’ve said goodbye a long time ago. You have no way of knowing that, but that ballbuster of a woman, who tried to help me, ended up getting through. And she brought you back to me, and me back to you._

_It’s been almost two years since I last saw you. But there hasn’t been a day that I haven’t thought of you. I don’t know how or when, but I’ll be coming home one day. I promise. And I’ll find you. And tell you how much you mean to me. And, if you’re ok with it, I think I’ll stick around for a while, get to know you for real. And maybe I’ll get to tell your mother what she really meant to me. I can’t hope for much more than that. But I have to try._

_Miss you,_

_Peter._

_**************************_

Franny stirred, turning to her side, facing him now, and she mumbled something in her sleep. Peter bent closer, but before he could turn his ear to try and make out what she was saying, he saw her eyes open and fix on his face. She wasn’t sleep talking. She was talking to _him_. And now she was looking at him, waiting for him to say something in return. There was an expression in her eyes, that he never saw before. It wasn’t sadness, but it was very close. She seemed cautiously hesitant, a little uncertain, but also wistful and hopeful. Vulnerable.  She wasn’t just saying something, she was asking. He opened his mouth to tell her to just sleep for now, because she looked so tired, but then something happened, as if the sound wave carrying her words was lost along the pathways of his mind for a while, but then it wasn’t anymore, and he _heard_ her. There was probably more to it, but what registered in the end was what mattered the most, “…ll you be my father…”. He wasn’t sure if it sounded like a question or a statement, but whatever he was going to say, he stopped. In fact, many things stopped. Things like his thoughts, things like the time, things like the past. An imaginary line was drawn with those words between what he had been, what _they_ had been, and between what was _now_.

“Franny…” he heard himself saying, and it came out so soft and so tender. But what he was going to say next, if there even _was_ anything he wanted to say next, it just fell away.

He carefully removed his hand from between hers, and, instead, took both her palms into his. He stilled then. Completely. Just looking at her.

 

**********************

_Dear Franny,_

_Wow._

_I’ve seen you today stand up to that girl on your school playground for bullying your friend Ross. I don’t think I EVER had an urge like that to walk up to someone and take them into my arms. And never let go. You’re the bravest person I know. And the kindest one, too. And, although I have no right, I am so damn proud of you._

_How did you ever get to be so… right? I’ve carried you around with me for almost nine years. And I think I fell in love with you all over again today. You remind me of your mother so much. And yet, you are so different. You’re breathtaking. Incredible. Beautiful._

_I’ve been back for a couple of weeks now. But I’ll have to go away again soon. I know I shouldn’t have been walking around and keeping tabs on you and your mother, but I had to make sure. I had to know you’re both safe and happy. And I don’t think I felt this happy myself in a long time._

_I have hopes again. And it makes me smile. I am hoping to one day be a part of your life for a long time. It would be my greatest privilege._

_Fuck it, Franny. I can hope, can I? I can imagine myself watching a movie with you, helping you with your homework (it doesn’t seem like Max is gonna like it, though). But I can still hope. I hope I can be for you one day what you’ve been for me. My beacon, my sanity, my anchor, my home._

_Until then, hopefully,_

_Peter (your biggest groupie)._

_**************************_

What she was for him, what she _always_ meant to him, could never be put into words. And what he wanted to be for her was never a question. But it was also never named so explicitly. And even now, having had heard her actually say that word, he couldn’t anchor himself enough to repeat it, even in his mind. He proposed to her mother, for fuck’s sake, she _accepted_ , they were joking about it as if it already happened, and in a way, it did, because none of them needed to have a priest telling them what they were for each other. What did he think he was going to be for Franny when he married her mother? Or regardless of that? What did he think _Franny_ was for him, clinging to her image in his thoughts through so many rough days and nights? For so many years? Was there a day in the last nine years that he didn’t stop once to wonder what she looked like now?

He felt his heart racing again, his head spinning, his breathing shallow and way too fast. He knew he was scared, but he also knew it wasn’t of what it meant, not of the weight it had, not of the responsibility it carried. He tried falling back to his time with Lauren, seeking refuge in some of the things he learnt about himself with her, but it wasn’t there. It was deeper inside him. Because it was _always_ there, long before he met Carrie, long before Franny was born. He trailed his life all the way back to his training. And maybe even beyond that. And he let the fear settle in. He reached for her hand and he felt her warm fingers take his. He waited for the fear to come around what it was about, so he can grab it and choke it until it was no more.

 _Father_. His mind stopped. Everything became still again. His breathing became quieter, his heartbeat slower. _Father_. Was he really afraid of that? Was there _ever_ something he wanted more? It was just a word. A silly to syllable word, which didn’t even begin to describe how much he loved her, how long he had waited to be a part of her life, how much he wanted to spend the rest of _his_ making her happy. People became fathers and mothers due to a random chain of biological events. He was Johnny’s father. But was he a father _to_ him? He knew now, he would be, hopefully soon. But for Franny, _to_ Franny, he already was. And not because she was his child, but because she was his home for as long as he could remember.

He felt himself laughing suddenly, his hand squeezing hers, she was so tiny, so fragile, and yet she brought him to his knees. Her head was tilted a bit to the side, after she flipped to her back. There was no fear in her crystal blue eyes, no doubt. She looked straight at him, a question still there, but it was more of a ‘need to feel it, need you to say it’ now than anything else.

Quinn leaned closer and his mind was as clear as a blue sky on a summer day, “Would you _have_ me as your father, Franny Mathison?” he proposed back, still shaking deep inside.

“Yes,” she smiled, and then laughed as well, that jingling ringing sound he remembered ever since that day in the park. And she laced her little fingers through his, their palms mending, as she tilted his hand from side to side.

“Well then,” in one motion, he picked her up and sat her on his knees, pulling the covers as well and wrapping her next to his chest. He cradled her head in his palm and kissed her forehead, then her cheekbone, then her cute little nose. “I would love that very-very- _very_ much.”

And he knew it was coming. Not because it was official now, but because it was Franny. And once she had her mind set on something, there was no going back, only surging forward. And he wondered how well he knew her already, and he smiled thinking how much there was still for him to learn and discover in the years to come. But he could see it coming even before she opened her mouth. And he was ready, bracing himself for the impact, because Franny was not going to wait for the things to just develop naturally. So, there it was.

“Dad?” she called. And he felt something inside of him break a little all over again. But in a good, welcome way.

“Mmm?” he answered, leaning closer and rubbing his nose against hers. “What, sweetie?”

“I love you as much as there are words in all of the elvish songs,” she smiled defiantly, bringing him into the family bedtime challenge routine.

Quinn raised one eyebrow. Game on. _Man_ , was he happy he didn’t get the ‘bits’ riddle and didn’t need Max to clarify just how much it was that his baby girl loved him.

“S’that so?” he propped her higher in his arms, his fingers fiddling with her curls. “Quenya or Sindarin?” was his way to both clarify and let her know he could match her challenge and _then_ some.

Franny’s face reflected all he needed to know, her eyes opening wide, her smile breaking into something completely astonished, “Both,” she whispered, pulling herself up and reaching his chin with her lips.

Peter cuddled her back into his arms and pressed the side of his head to her brow, “I thought so,” he smiled. “And I love you as much as there are heartbeats of every father who ever loved their little girls,” his thumb slid across her face, tracing along her features. He reached her eyes and softly brought them to close, then he pressed his lips to her eyelids. “Now, sleep,” he breathed.

“Here?” she opened her eyes.

“Father’s privilege,” Quinn let his arms wrap a tighter circle around her, making sure she was all covered, and gently laying her head on his shoulder. “You sleep in my arms, my beautiful brave angel,” he pressed his lips to her forehead and stilled there. “You just sleep,” he whispered a while later, when her breathing finally hit that peaceful spot and her body went limp against him.

He wasn’t going to let go of her. Not yet. The room was dark. Quiet. And Quinn let himself just _be_. His eyes on her sleeping face, he let his mind wander and take a full circle on a timeline of his own life. It wasn’t nearly as smooth as Franny’s, it was jagged and rocky, but it led _here_. And he let her be his reset point, his lighthouse, as he dared to look back and remember all the things he once thought were leading him into darkness, but now knew were inevitably bringing him to this point, where the darkness existed just because the lights were off, just so that his baby girl could sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a brief reference at the end of this chapter to Tolkien's world.  
> I always imagined the end of it being read while listening to this, the nerdiest lullaby ever, something that I imagined would mean so much to all of them at the time.  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=shdiTRxTJb4
> 
> _Hope fades, into the world of night. Through shadows falling out of memory and time. Don’t say we have come now to the end – white shores are calling: you and I will meet again. And you’ll be here, in my arms, just sleeping…_


	20. The Backup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a long break for Christmas Calendar Advent...
> 
> Referencing MANY of the Christmas story events. But mostly just because there were demands for more Lily and Lauren... and stuff like that...
> 
> This one is kind of light. Next one is sort of long and heavy. So, basically, an interlude.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NikitaSunshine fixed all the wrong tenses and in general worked her ass off on this one. She calls it 'doctored it'. She's right. As usual. I can never love her enough. That's the truth.
> 
> Gnomecat, your comment on "that image" stayed with me till i had to write it in. Quinn owes you now. You're one great beta-reader. But most importantly, I fucking love you, you know that, right? XD

**Roughly 11 hours earlier**

_Switzerland_

 

The notification sounds were muted, the phone hidden somewhere between her knees and the table, Lauren felt it vibrate a short burst against her palm. She smiled and rolled her eyes, looking at Lily. Staff meetings always bored Lily to the point of borderline sociopathic crisis.

She looked down at the incognito chat window (always had to be incognito with Lily).

-To your right, under the table. Don’t stare

How was she not supposed to stare? She was sitting too close to the table to look underneath. The person sitting to her right was Matt, the next one over- Joana, the new physiotherapist, who joined just a couple of months beforehand. She was a little shy.

Lauren tried to think of a good diversion to allow her a peek. She ended up rolling back in her chair and adjusting her skirt. Her eyes flickered to the right for just a moment. _Shy my ass_.

The blood rushed to her face way too fast and she jerked her chair back towards the table with too much noise. Seeing everyone turning their heads towards her, including Matt, Joana and Colonel Davidson, who stopped whatever he was saying next regarding the slide projected on the screen, she blushed even harder, put her elbows on the table and half hid her face in her palms, turning to to the left. Then, to make things worse, she giggled and snorted.

“Something the matter, Mrs Lewis?” Davidson inquired impatiently.

“Emm… no, sir. Sorry,” she wished there was a place to bury herself. Or a way to stop snorting.

“Would you like a glass of water?”

“No, sir. I’m fine,” she finally managed to get control of her face, sat up straight and took a deep breath.

Lily’s face gave away nothing. She seemed just as focused as before, scribbling something in her notepad and looking at the slide on the screen from time to time. Matt looked at her for just a brief second, then at Lily, then kicked her in the shin. She kicked back, still unable to look at him without laughing. It wasn’t until they all turned their attention back to the CEO and his monthly budget presentation, that she saw Lily casually pick up her phone and type something.

-Nice going, you amateur turkey. Keep your day job

There was a brief glance in Lauren’s direction when she was sure her message was read and a barely noticeable shake of a head.

Lauren slowly put her phone on the table as well. There was no point in hiding it. She looked around. Lots of people were looking at notifications from time to time and sending replies. It was the modern world. Been like that for years now. She remembered Lily telling her something about hiding in plain sight.

-You can’t possibly see under this side of the table from there

-Didn’t have to. Joana is a lefty, but was trying to take notes with her right hand, while her left was under the table at a forty five degree angle.

Lauren sighed. This was what she loved about staff meetings - Lily’s and her boredom induced heightened observational skills. Her phone vibrated again.

-Richie’s wife kicked him out again

Lauren looked at the head of the finance department. For the life of her she didn’t see anything indicating that.

-?

Lily rolled her eyes and started typing.

-Same tie, same shirt and a toothpaste stain on his collar. He slept in his office

Lauren saw it now. Clever.

-What about Davidson? Any insights?

-He’s just a boring ass

-Interesting. I had the same observation.

-Not a lost cause after all. Just don’t try any more diversions. You suck

-Got it. Hey, you did the same crap on me once, right?

-Still do

-(Angry emoji) Like?

-You shtupped Ronnie again last week. In your office

A snort. Another scorning look from the colonel. Then both Lily and Lauren looked at Ronald Reese, their new head of security. The man was dreamy beyond words: tall, sexy black eyes, dark skin, body of a greek god… They both sighed.

-Can’t blame you though, - came a continuation. And Lauren winked at her.

-What’s a girl to do

-Anything’s better than falling for your broken toys

Lauren’s turn to roll her eyes. And she did. Her typing was more aggressive this time.

-For the thousandth time…

-I’m old, kiddo. Not dead

-Fine. Have it your way

-Better than you having YOUR way

-Fuck you

-You’re cute. But not my type

-I always keep my professional distance

That broke even Lily’s dead serious operative expression. She let out a short snorting noise and shook her head for real. Then gave Lauren a look of ‘I like you. You’re funny’. Then she typed again.

-True. It’s your one redeeming quality. That and fucking Ronnie’s brains out

Truth be told, they all did - fall for the ‘broken toys’ - from time to time. For Lily it was the need to show some comradery. She’d invite them for dinners at her house, tell them about her family. Never about her past, though. She was hoping it would show them there was a life beyond what they did, what _they_ lived for. She was hoping the chocolate would do its job. But it rarely did. In the end, they all went back to where they came from. Most of them - dead. Some of them - just gone. One - still clawing his way home. For Lauren, it was the overwhelming immersion into their tragedies. And there were always tragedies. Lost friends, lost families, lost chances. For most - forever, for some - for now, for one - maybe… just maybe… not.

Lily’s phone vibrated before she could see Lauren type anything in. Her eyes flew to her phone’s status bar. There was a new Telegram notification icon. But nothing from Lauren. She pulled the notification panel down and clicked on a new incognito chat message.

It read _‘Happy birthday! I’m long overdue, I know. You know how it is’._

Lily didn’t reply. Her birthday was seven months ago. ‘You know how it is’ meant trouble. Big trouble. ‘Long overdue’ meant - _you asked if you could help, I said no. I was wrong_.  She deleted the conversation and stood up. Her chair rolled back a tad too hard. She gave Davidson a calm apologetic smile and walked out the door. There were advantages to being a receptionist. No one really missed you. No one really needed you. And any silly blonde with big boobs could replace you if you needed to go away, if you were asked to fly across the Atlantic and help a man you loved once out of what seemed to be some big trouble.

  


Across the Atlantic, Saul Berenson was sitting in an empty studio apartment, his blood in a state like sludging ice barely moving through his veins, wondering where Quinn was, where Carrie was and having a very bad feeling about it all. Moments after he clicked send, a single ‘v’ turned into a double ‘v’, then the conversation was deleted instantaneously. And he knew the help was coming.

They reconnected about five years beforehand, when he needed her help to look after Quinn and get him a place at the rehabilitation facility she worked at. She did it all without asking questions. She always had. He lived to almost regret it about a year later, when she bulldozed him into sending a letter to Julia Diaz. He knew now he shouldn’t have worried. Lily always knew what she was doing. And in this case, god knows how, she did something for people she didn’t even know that was incredible beyond belief.

They stayed in touch over all those years, exchanging family photos: she’d send ones of herself, her daughters and her granddaughters. He’d send ones of Carrie, Franny, Johnny, Julia, Max, himself, and most recently Liam and little Peter. It made her happy. She also demanded constant updates on his operation status. And Saul knew she couldn’t give a rat’s furry ass about how close he was getting to completing it. The biggest operation of his life and the woman he never stopped loving could only care about one thing - the wellbeing of his operative. Every time they had that conversation it ended the same way: ‘When are you letting him go home?’ and then ‘No idea. You’ll be the first one to know’ and then ‘I should have told him to tell you to go fuck yourself’. Saul knew she meant it. And now he kind of wished she had.

He asked her to come because he knew she would never forgive him if he didn’t take care of ‘that kid’. He couldn’t help muffling a chuckle into his beard every time she called him that. There were lots of things he had to say about Peter Quinn. _‘That kid’_ was never one of them. But for Lily he was different - a kindred soul, a wounded warrior, a fallen comrade, one of her own people. She was domesticated as hell, Saul knew. He had been to her house, ate her food, met her offspring. But there were things you never get over - things like protecting  your own. Lily had three daughters and one son. He wasn’t her flesh and blood. But he was a son to her nevertheless, from the first time she laid eyes on him to the very last time she saw him four years ago.

“Please hurry,” he muttered, looking at his phone, calculating the time it would take her to get here. He needed her.

  
  


Lauren sped down the road as Lily’s house came into view. She parked the car semi-legally across the street and jumped out. She’d left the staff meeting soon after Lily. Nothing on her friend’s face gave away anything concerning. But there was something… in her eyes. And there weren’t many emergencies in the life of receptionist. Lauren thought perhaps something had happened with Lily’s family. She didn’t think that anymore.

Lily looked nothing like her usual self. She was wearing a short black leather jacket with a tight black t-shirt underneath, black jeans and heavy boots. The curls of her full silver hair were tied in a firm knot behind her head, not a single strand left rogue or sticking out. She wore no makeup. She was still stunning, Lauren thought. Maybe even more so. The black gave a completely different tint to her big greenish eyes. Her face looked longer and more open. She was as fit and slim as a twenty-year-old gym freak. And she moved like nothing Lauren had seen before - fast, precise and decisive. This is how she knew it was a different kind of emergency.

The moment Lily spotted Lauren, she slammed the trunk of her car shut and swung around. There was a smile on her face now, warm and wholehearted as ever.

“Hey, kiddo, get bored without me?” she tried to joke around the obvious.

“What’s wrong?” Lauren was now next to her, studying her face.

“Gotta go away for a coupla days. Don’t miss me too much,” Lily gave her a quick hug and headed for the driver’s side, jingling her keys.

“Lily!”

“Hey, you wanna ride back to the campus?” Lily motioned to the passenger side.

“I got my…” Lauren pointed to her own car, a little puzzled.

“For fuck’s sake, girl,” Lily snapped. “Get in the car.”

“Oh…” Lauren got it. She was never good with Lily’s code talk.

Lily muttered a long string of curses and within seconds the tires screeched them into motion.

“You can’t do shit like that,” she said, finally, changing gears so fast that it made Lauren more dizzy than the speed at which she was going through a populated area.

“Sorry, I thought something happened.”

“Something _did_ happen,” Lily scorned. “And you should know better than to follow me home when I leave like that. You of _all_ people should know better.”

“Are you gonna be ok?” Lauren had known for some time now, a little over four years. But nothing like this had ever happened before.

“Kiddo…” Lily deflated a bit and reached for her hand. She patted the back of it and gave her a sad smile. “I’ll be fine. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it. I’ll be back in no time.”

“How can you know that?” Lauren was skeptical.

Lily said nothing, just looking at the road. Truth was, she didn’t.

“Can they just do that? Call you away like that?” Lauren knew the likely answer to that question. But given Lily’s age and her being practically retired, she asked anyway.

“That’s the job, honey,” but there was something in Lily’s eyes that gave her away. She was way too worried. And there was the distinct glistening of tears.

“Oh God…” Lauren’s heart sank. “It’s not…”

“Don’t.”

“But…”

“I said… _stop_ . Just _stop_. This is not a game, Lauren.” Whenever she called her by her first name and not ‘kiddo’ or ‘honey,’ Lauren knew just how serious it was. Lily reached under her seat, pulled out a heavy black gun and placed it between them. Lauren gasped and turned away. It was one thing knowing, another - seeing. “Look at me,” Lily’s voice, calm and cold, made her obey. “I shouldn’t have told you. I don’t know why I did. I know you’re my friend and you’re worried about me. But I worry about you, too. I’ve been doing this shit my whole life. It’s no James Bond movie. Real people need real help because their lives are in real danger. You can’t keep asking questions. You need to stop. And you need to pull yourself together.”

“Ok,” Lauren finally let go of the breath she’d been holding and nodded.

“Good,” Lily allowed herself a small smile. But a very brief one. She pulled to the side next to the main gate to the compound and brought the car to a screeching halt. “Ask Matt if he can give you a ride to pick up your car tomorrow. Now get out.”

“Lil, can you… I dunno message? It’s about _him_ , isn’t it?”

Lily’s eyes flew open and her voice became iron hard, “What did I _just_ say?”

“Ok,” Lauren repeated, a little frightened, and she opened the passenger door.

“Kiddo,” Lily put a soft hand on her arm, feeling bad for her outburst. She waited for their eyes to meet. “I’ve got this. I promise,” was all she could say. And she hoped to God this time the little ‘turkey’ understood what she meant. She didn’t know what had happened. She didn’t know why she was needed. But she knew Saul Berenson was at the end of his rope. Which meant that for some reason his net of operational support shrank to below critical. And she had meant it when she’d promised Lauren and herself she’d do her damndest to help both the man she could never say no to and the man she hoped to God was alright.

“Got it,” Lauren promised. Then leaned in and kissed her cheek. “Please take care, you tough old bird,” she whispered.

There were tears for real in Lily’s eyes now, “Yeah yeah… out. Now. Bye,” and just like that she stepped on the gas and disappeared into the cloud of dust behind her tires.

______________________________________

  


**1 hour earlier**

_NYC_

 

Saul woke up with a jolt. Max had just left, and he was trying to get some shut eye despite the beeping and chattering of the intermediate intensive care unit. His PCA meds were doing him good. And it had actually taken Max some effort to fill him in regarding the conversation they’d had just a couple of hours ago. Apparently he’d had quite a ketamine trip. And had then told Max not to let him forget. So, when he did eventually forget and woke up an hour later, asking if the surgery went ok, he had to be told everything that had happened. The realisations he had apparently come to did not make him happy. And now, being in sound unmedicated mind, he came to the same conclusions. They didn’t make it easier to stomach. But now at least he knew where everyone stood. Carrie, Franny and Quinn were safe. His operation was still ongoing. He was a little unsure about how to handle Dar Adal, but there was, really, nothing new about that. He always compartmentalized the vital information, he knew Dar did too. He had an upper hand, thanks to Carrie’s… emmmm… ‘research’. And, most importantly, everyone he really cared about was safe and sound at the moment. With that thought he said goodbye to Max as he headed back to the safe house, pressed his PCA button, and closed his eyes.

That was the plan - to get some sleep. To wake up more rested and coherent and ready to  endure the rest of the week (or weeks) he was probably destined to stay here. Quinn would get Carrie out of the country, then he would come back, set up a new safe house, with Max this time, and he would be able to coordinate things even from here. Yeah. It all sounded good. There was something that bothered him, though. Something he kept trying to remember. Something he did earlier in the day, someone he talked to… was it Nick? No, he was pretty resolved about never hearing from Nick again.

“You look so sexy with your chest all shaved and plastered,” said a voice next to his ear. And then he remembered what it was he had done and who he had talked to. He’d never told Lily not to come after Quinn turned up safe.

For a moment he actually considered keeping his eyes closed. As if _that_ would make her go away. It was a brief thought, and an entertaining one. Especially knowing Lily. That woman never went away. But still he kept them closed. That was, until he felt an excruciating pain in his right chest and his eyes flew open just in time to see her tugging on his drain.

“Oh, good, you’re awake,” she said casually and dragged a chair closer to his bed. “What’s up, lover boy? Get tangled in your own shoelaces?”

That’s why he hated this woman. He loved her, sure, but he hated her even more. Especially when she’d put up that ballsy aggravating facade. But as she sat close and took his hand into hers, with all the tenderness in the world, and he looked at her face, the hatred was no more. She was crazy like that - loving, bitchy, black-ops crazy.

“God, you’re stunning,” he managed, drowning in the muddy green pools of her big eyes - the one thing about her that had never changed, and the only thing he could never forget.

“You’re not too bad-looking yourself… well, except for the tubing… and that thing coming out of your nose,” she smiled, that most beautiful smile that could make your heart do weird things. Then she leaned in and kissed him, on the lips, a short soft kiss that made him wish for so many different things at once.

“Hey,” he said, in a husky low voice, as she pulled away but remained close to his face.

“Hey yourself,” she whispered back, then kissed him once more, before falling back into the chair. “So, what exactly am I doing here?”

“I’m fine by the way, thanks for asking,” he grunted, giving her a lopsided smile.

“Oh, I know that. Asked that... doctor person. He filled me in.”

“Lily, I feel so awful. I messaged you when things were going south fast and I never got back to you.”

She scoffed and leaned back on her chair, extending her legs up and placing her feet in their heavy boots on his hospital bed, “Honey, fifteen minutes after you messaged, I booked a flight and was on my way. Nothing you could have done. Besides, I was at a boring staff meeting,” then she snorted, “It’s like a briefing… and you remember how much I _lllooovvveee_ briefings.”

“You mean like the one time you actually had an IED with a timer set to go off fifteen minutes into one?”

She giggled, “Good times,” he couldn’t argue with that if he wanted to. Seeing as she did that to get some alone time with him before going away on a mission.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” he shook his head. “The best part of the day.”

She motioned with her head to his chest tube, “Not a big competition.”

“Yeah.”

“So, where’s my boy?”

“Your _boy_ is just fine,” he assured her.

“He better be, or the bullet in your back will be the least of your problems.”

“Yeah, I love you too.”

“I know,” she grinned, then went back to business. “Give me the short version.”

Saul did. The security camera was dead and Max had assured him there were no other listening devices in the room. He didn’t go into the operational details. And Lily didn’t need him to elaborate on the safe house location. She was easy to brief. As long as you kept it shorter than fifteen minutes.

“She offed _how many_ ?” the expression on her face was borderline amused, and, maybe a little _too_ excited.

“Sixteen,” Saul still couldn’t believe it himself.

“Damn that girl is worth it,” Lily chuckled and shook her head. “And you, you old turkey, never saw it coming? I _told_ you it was a bad business. You should have let him go home. _None_ of that shit would have happened.”

“Yeah, you’re just forgetting one tiny little detail.”

“Which is…”

“That he could have been dead for real. And I just figured… sooner or later, she’d cope with that, you know? I mean, she _seemed_ to be doing fine.”

“Honey, I would have done… I wanna say the _same…_ but probably _worse_.”

“Yeah, well, from _you_ I would expect nothing less.”

“It’s all in the means, sweets.”

He frowned, “The _means_?”

“Yeah,” Lily waved her hand impatiently. “I think, take _anyone_ coping with a violent death, they’d be thinking… at some point… _gotta get the motherfuckers_. We just have the means, you know…”

Saul never thought about it like that. It made him stop for a minute. And make some vivid realisations. There was something frighteningly true about what she was saying. Luckily, she was way into business now to continue this discussion.

“So, what’s the plan?” referring to the extraction plan for Carrie and Franny.

“No idea,” he said, truthfully. He knew Quinn was up to something and he knew that Max was somewhat up to speed. But that was the extent of his knowledge. He respected it. And he knew Lily would, too.

“I’ll get moving,” she stood up and picked up a long black bag, the possible contents of which made him shiver. And not in a good way.

“Hey, Lil,” he knew there would be no stopping her _now_ . Not when her _boy_ needed her help.

She turned around, walked back, and patted his cheek, “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she promised, to the best of her abilities. Saul knew she would. She was the only _other_ person in the world, who was just _that_ reliable.

“Hey, wait,” he said, remembering something as she was already on her way out.

She popped her head back in, “Better be good.”

“He doesn’t know… about you, I mean. I’ve never told him.”

“Your point?”

“Well he might get a little… I wanna say overprotective and jumpy, but I’m gonna go with batshit black-ops crazy if you barge into that safe house.”

Lily patted her bag, confirming what he’d guessed about its contents, “We’ll understand each other just fine. At some point.”

“There is a child there,” he reminded her. “And two... well, practically civilians.”

“Again… your point?”

He smiled. He had no point, “Just take it easy.”

“I got chocolate,” she winked at him and blew him a kiss. “It fixes everything.”

Saul had no doubt.

____________________________________

  


**Half an hour earlier**

_Somewhere on the streets of Greenwich Village, NYC_

 

Max could see the station building from where he stopped. He was hungry and tired. And the night was just getting started. He was carrying his laptop and a heavy bag with a flight yoke and rudder pedals he’d confiscated from his flight simulator-obsessed pal. He could fall asleep standing.

But there was one last thing Quinn had asked of him. He probably should have done it earlier, but in between staying with Saul, hacking into databases and gathering the simulator gear… long story short - he’d just gotten to it. He looked at the time. It was past ten. Not the best time to call a normal family. But it was the _only_ time now. There was a small park right across the street. He found a bench close to the road. The background noise was important. It was the best smoke screen against listening devices of any kind. You just needed to find that sweet spot where it wouldn’t affect your ability to comfortably converse, but _would_ affect the clarity of sound carried around you. Luckily, this was Max’s… emmmm… ‘other’ specialty.

He found a dry spot on the bench and sat down. Then he took out a burner phone  - _a different_ burner phone. Not the one he had in his safe for Saul’s operation emergencies. The one he switched for the three of them everyday for _Carrie’s_. He dialed the number from memory and smiled. Truth be told, he couldn’t wait to tell her.

Julia knew. About Carrie’s plan, about his involvement in it and about it all coming to an end today. Of all days. Frustratingly enough, Carrie seemed less surprised when she realised _Julia_ figured it out, than when _he_ confronted her about it about half a year earlier. For some reason it bugged the hell out of him. He had gone to hell and back to confirm his suspicions (Carrie was just _that_ good). Julia, who had never installed a single listening device in her life (probably never saw one, even), just sat on Carrie’s couch one day, breastfeeding her newborn son, looked up and asked ‘So, what’s the plan?” Julia wasn’t a spy. She was just a very good friend. And, well, a damn good detective. Reading people was her thing. Reading _Carrie_ was her hobby.

Carrie had resisted. At first. Julia just gave her the _look_ . She had a way about her. One Carrie both hated and adored. She could always call Carrie on her bullshit. Most of all Carrie hated _the look_. She missed it. Probably why she hated it. She wasn’t sure if it was something Julia learnt from Quinn or he from her, but it irritated the living crap out of her. And it also made her tear up. Carrie was weird like that.

In the end, Carrie gave in. Arguing with Julia was kind of like arguing with Quinn - frustrating and quite pointless. She made her swear… ‘on Johnny’s memory’ of all things… that she wouldn’t get involved. Julia promised. Carrie had told her. And Max confirmed it. Julia called them ‘crazy badass motherfuckers’. They both knew that, coming from her, it was the biggest compliment.

Julia never got involved. But Carrie told her everything. Julia was Carrie’s first call everytime she completed another step. It was their new thing. Carrie looked after Julia and Johnny. Even after Julia and Liam got married. Julia pretended she hadn’t noticed. And she looked after Carrie. Most people would find it weird. Well, most people wouldn’t feel they owe it to a man who wasn’t there to look after them anymore.

A sleepy woman’s voice came through, “Hey… how’s the memorial?” she kind of always got straight to the point. Wasn’t one for many words.

That made Max miss a swallow and cough a choked laughter. Yeah, he forgot where he was _supposed_ to be right now. She never came to their memorials. It was _their_ thing, _their_ time, she used to say. They’d had enough memorials of their own, the three of them.

Before he could answer, he heard a man’s muffled voice in the background, “That your other husband?” Liam had a very easy going nature when it came to their friendship.

“Yeah,” Max heard Julia laugh and then the sound of three sleepy kisses. “I’ll be right back. Go back to sleep.”

There was some bustle as the phone was apparently handed over, and he heard Liam’s voice more clearly now. He always did this.

“Max… If my wife is not back in my arms in ten minutes, I will hunt you down and shove that bloody burner down your fucking throat.”

“Got it,” Max laughed. Liam was his best friend. Max was the one who introduced him and Julia. Liam was ex-Delta forces. And Max had no doubt he meant every word.

“You wanna talk to a woman in the middle of the night… get your own. Just sayin’,” he was _always_ saying that.

“Gotcha,” Max answered, as usual. “Sorry.”

“We’re not allowed to use that word in this family,” Liam commented, and then screamed. Max knew he was punched for that. He also knew the ‘love means never having to say you’re sorry’ rule. “Ok, I have a bad case of police brutality here… aw… AW! Ok… ok! Take the phone and get outta here. Bye Max,” then there was another kissing sound, the sound of Julia putting on her slippers, door opening, door closing, another door opening… and, finally, it was all quiet.

“So… what’s up?” he heard Julia pouring water into a kettle. She couldn’t sleep these days without her camomile tea. She was seven months pregnant, and Max felt even worse waking her up.

“Well, lots of things,” he wished he knew where to begin.

He actually asked that question when Quinn tasked him with this. He remembered exactly how it went down.

_“You want me to tell her that over the phone? ‘Cause I don’t really have time to drive to Philly. What do I even say?”_

_“Jules will understand,” Fucking Quinn._

Right. So here he is.

“Is Carrie alright? Did it go as planned?”

Huh. Did it? Really? Max rewinded the day in his mind and shook his head. There were three days in his life he would remember for as long as he lived: the day Fara was murdered, Christmas four years ago, and today.

“Not quite,” he managed in response. Still figuring out how to say it.

“What happened?” she kept her voice steady, but Max could feel her panic rising.

“Well… _a lot_ of things happened. But Carrie is fine. Franny is fine, too. They are both safe.”

“I got worried when she didn’t call. But I figured there was the memorial and she was supposed to fly out tomorrow morning. Is she still going?”

“Yes,” Max nodded. The only thing in their plans that hadn’t changed. “But not to the same place. And not alone.”

“Max…” Julia let out a frustrated sigh, “it’s way too late and I’m way too pregnant to get your riddles. What’s up?”

“You’re sitting down?”

“I am _now_.”

“No hot beverages in your hands?”

He heard a thump of a tea cup being placed on the table, “Not anymore. Shoot.”

Brrrrrrr. Small talk was over. Max stuffed his face into his palm and rubbed it all over. Then he scratched his head. There we go.

“You know how you said Johnny would always fight his way back?”

The line went silent. Max waited. Somehow he had a feeling there was nothing more he needed to say. Or maybe he should? Fuck if he knew.

“Yeah…” he could hear the strain in her voice.

“Well…” _he kinda did_ . That was what Max was _going_ to say.

But it was Julia’s thing, he remembered - she was good at reading people. And Quinn was right. _Again_.

“Oh God…”

“Yeah.”

She had many questions. She asked none. Not what he had been doing all this time. Not where he had been. If Johnny hadn’t come back until now, he’d had his reasons. She stood up and walked to the window. The inside of her chest was flipping and turning upside down. The sky was pitch dark and full of stars. But the world had just become so much brighter. And it wasn’t one person short anymore. It had been enough for her to know, all those years he was alive but not with her, that he was out there somewhere. It was enough now, too.

Seeing how she didn’t speak, Max turned to a more uplifting (and recent) development, “Hey, guess what, he’ll be flying  a jet tomorrow, getting Carrie and Franny out of the country. I guess we’re _all_ happy now he had to show you sixteen years ago that he can ‘beat Danny’.”

Julia felt the tears spring from her eyes. And laughed, “My crazy badass motherfucker.”

Max told her about the plan. He didn’t want her to get worried when tomorrow’s headlines hit the world. He’d promised Quinn he would.

“He asked me to tell you something,” he said then.

“What?” Julia wiped her eyes and calmed her breathing.

“He said… and I quote… ‘cause _fuck_ if I know what he was talking about... ‘Even in 2003 it wouldn’t have taken an ambulance more than 7 minutes to reach Lincoln High. Let alone 45 minutes. Definitely not at night’. Whatever _that_ means. He said you’d know.”

Even before all the dominoes had fallen neatly into place, Julia was on her feet and heading to her desk. She flipped the lid of her Mac open and went online. In less than a minute, she was logged in. Within three minutes, she knew. These days she had been working a cold case. From 2003. A teenager had been found dead, poisoned, on the steps of Lincoln High. They had a confession. The testimony of the victim’s best friend and the confession of a woman who was now in custody. The lab had confirmed it. The timeline between the victim drinking the spiked soda and the ambulance getting there had never bothered her before. Well, it did _now_.

“Jesus, Max,” she gasped, staring at her display.

“So, you _do_ know what it means,” not a question.

“Fuck _yeah_. I think he just broke my case.”

Max dropped his head into his palm again. Fucking Quinn. Coming back with a bang. Figures.

“Carrie was right. The man is bored out of his fucking mind half the time, even _during_ his missions.”

“Are you going to see them before they leave?” her tears blurred the display.

“On my way over now.”

“Tell him I love him. Tell him his son loves him,” she breathed a whisper. “Tell him to be careful and to take care of Carrie and Franny. And tell them all we’ll be here when it’s safe for them to make contact.”

“He knows.”

“He better.”

“You ok?” Max was still a little worried. That was _his_ thing - to worry.

“You fucking kidding me?”

He took it as a _yes_ and smiled. “Give JJ a kiss from all of us.”

“Will do. You guys fly safely. You’re in good hands.”

Max eyed the flight simulator gear in his bag. He had his doubts. But then again, he always did. But Julia would know best.

“Bye, Jules. Goodnight.”

“Thank you, Max. Love you. Night.”

Julia finished her tea. With every sip, her smile became wider. By the time she put the cup in the sink there was a lightness in her chest that she hadn’t felt in a long time. She went back inside and slipped under the covers, pulling the heavy blanket up to her ears. She felt Liam’s hand find her swollen belly, slide across it, then reach the small of her back and bring her into his embrace. She wrapped her arm and her leg around him and leaned into the familiar warmth of his lips.

“Your feet are cold,” he smiled against her kiss. Not a complaint. Just an observation. “C’mere, all of you,” if it was possible, he pulled her in even closer. “What did Max want?” he asked, fully knowing she couldn’t always tell him.

“Quinn’s alive,” she said, simply.

“No shit,” Liam opened his eyes fully now.

“Shit,” Julia laughed.

“Oh… wow,” he propped his head on his elbow and stroked her hair. “You ok?”

“Yeah,” she  pressed her lips into his palm.

When they had first met he was in bad shape, haunted by nightmares and just recently diagnosed with PTSD. It hadn’t been easy. But she’d held him through it - all of it: therapy, bad dreams, jumping at loud noises, freezing at the sight of fire. She’d told him how she knew how to do that - hold someone through the ‘bad bits’. And he loved that part of her life just as much as she did.

“He kinda never struck me as the dying type, you know?” Liam smiled.

“Yeah… Stubborn motherfucker...” when her eyes filled with tears, he leaned in and kissed her eyelids, gathering the droplets with his lips.

“I’m married to his better half. So I kinda know.”

She shook her head, “What did I ever do to deserve you?”

“You held people,” he whispered into her ear, making his way to her neck, then her shoulder, then to her clavicle. He heard her gasp his name, and he pulled her closer.

______________________________________

 

**Current time**

_Village Station Safe House, 3A_

 

Max finished eating. Strike that - he swallowed two plates of mac and cheese in one go. Then he unpacked the flight simulator gear, threw it on the table, put his laptop next to it, and yawned.

“More coffee?” Carrie asked from the couch, seriously embarrassed to look him in the eye.

He glanced at the kitchen, not nearly hungry or thirsty enough to ignore _that_ image anymore, frowned and shook his head.

“I think a shower will do it,” yes, a shower, it was in the bathroom, which had a door - he could be behind it for a while, leaving them alone again to… whatever.

“Not a bad idea,” Quinn nodded, picking up Max’s plate.

Max rolled his eyes. It was the second time in the last ten minutes. But he smiled. And dragged himself into the shower.

Before Carrie had the chance to get up and leap into Quinn’s arms again he collapsed into hers, pulling her in, closer and tighter, but not nearly close enough, not as much as he needed her to be, not like she had been just before - her every breath mixing with his own, every inch of her molded into him. His hands were on her again, all around her - seeking her, missing her already, needing her even more now. Long before he kissed her again, he touched his face to hers, skin to skin, warm, tender, caressing, moving just a little at a time, then finally letting his lips sink into her - her cheek first, then the side of her nose, the tip of it, her eyelid, her temple, her hairline. Inhaling her scent again, letting out a soft, longing moan every time his mouth found another spot of her. Then falling, breaking hard into her lips, with a groan, almost a growl, cradling her in his arms now, her head snapping back in abandon, taking her breath deep into his lungs…

...And feeling Carrie laugh again, giggling against his mouth...

“I don’t think I _ever_ got dressed so fast...”

“Mmmmmphhhhh… mmm-hmm,” was the only answer. Then he laughed as well, both arms around her, suddenly so weak, so dizzy, so vulnerable. He let his head slide to her shoulder, never breaking contact - his face, his cheek, his nose touching her skin until he buried them in the curve of her neck.

She tickled him behind an ear, “You alive there?”

“Mmm-hmm… mphhhh… barely,” he snorted into her neck and rubbed his nose against her collar bone. Then pulled her closer. “I love you,” he trailed kisses along her shoulder and finally rested his head on top of it, closing his eyes. “I loved it.”

“Oh _really_ … you did, huh?” sarcasm, filled with tenderness, surrounded by a soft chuckle, and soothed by the tips of her fingers wandering through his hair, her head coming to snuggle next to his neck.

It was so vivid now -  a rush of a memory, spinning into the _now_ from _just before_ . Quinn walking out of Franny’s room, closing the door, seeing her in the kitchen with the coffee pot in her hand. The look in his eyes, as he walked across the living room straight to her; the smile on her face, when his hands grabbed her by the waist, then shot up along her sides before sliding around her, bringing her closer -  all the way -  into the fire that was beyond control now. Clothes yanked then thrown, elbows pushing, skin breaking contact, then rushing back into it, mouths touching, panting, smiling; eyes closing, then opening again; hands everywhere, fingers gentle, then impatient. Then nothing. And everything. And everywhere. Her moans - muffled into his mouth, his - into her breath, trembling - of lips, of hands, of hearts, gasping - of names, of syllables. Then her scream, long and sweet against his lips, against his smile, then his moan, breaking into a cry, then into a breath. His knees weakening, a hand on the counter, steadying him up, with her in his arms, all around him, next to his chest, her lips seeking his in the blur of descent, needing him still, needing him _more_. Almost falling, but not. Then a kiss - with arms laced around each other so tight, so close - nothing, not even air between them. A kiss so long and tender -  many little kisses, really - broken by smiles, broken by nose rubs, broken by words, whispers, promises.

And then the sound of Max at the door. Clothes everywhere, being yanked back - from the coffee machine, from the sink, from the faucet, from the floor. Max’s look, which Carrie didn’t get to see, because she couldn’t stop laughing and snorting - into Quinn’s chest: his palm covering her head, his other arm around her shoulders, hers  - around his waist, very embarrassed, but so close to each other, and so happy. Max’s eyes motioning to something before he continued to put his bag on the coffee table. Laced panties on the counter. Oops.

The water in the shower stopped running. They were still in each other’s arms, just being, just holding, his head on her shoulder, hers - resting on his neck.

“Quinn,” Carrie nudged him, gently pushing with her cheek.

“No,” he knew he had to let go now. But ‘no’.

“Peter,” she slid her palm across his shoulders. And she could feel his lips curve up against her clavicle. And his arms tightening their grip.

“ _Fuck_ no.”

She turned her head and found his ear. Her breath was hot and urgent, when she whispered to him - everything she felt, everything she wanted, everything she was grateful for, and, mostly, everything she was going to do to him once Max went to sleep.

He smiled wider now, still not letting go, “Tell me more,” he breathed into her shoulder.

She did. Then more. About every day of their lives together, every night, every morning, every time.

“I promise,” and her lips pressed into his ear.

He lifted his head and kissed her, picking her up and pulling her onto his lap.

She placed her palm on the side of his face, her fingers softly mending with his skin as she traced the little wrinkles at the corner of his eye.

“I loved it too,” she murmured then, her smile bright and teasing, finally sinking into his lips - a soft and gentle ‘thank you’. “I love you too.”

 

By the time Max was out of the shower, they sat next to each other - Quinn’s arm around Carrie, her head on his shoulder, hands still refusing to let go. Max had a quizzical look on his face and a lopsided smile. That earned him a narrow-eyed stare from Quinn.

“Fucking get over yourself already,” he grunted, but with a grin.

Max shook his head and decided it was the best course of action after all. Two adults had sex. Two of his _friends_ had sex. In the _kitchen_ . _Eww_ . But fine. He would _get over himself_. He sighed and sat on the couch next to them. He wanted to say something. Something nice. No words came to mind. He was happy. So happy for them. He just left it at that, opened his laptop and launched the flight simulator.

“Time to fly again, Johnny boy,” he chuckled, pulling out a huge mess of wires.

Quinn had a comment on that - many, actually. But he never got to make any of them. There was a knock on the door, and before Carrie had time to realise that no one - _no one_ \- was supposed to come here, not even the station personnel, without announcing via the intercom first, Quinn’s hand was gone from hers, and there was a gun in it.

“Franny’s room, both of you, now,” he mouthed, already on his feet.

“Quinn…” _no way_.

“Carrie, go to Franny,” his eyes on hers, for just a moment before returning to the target - one look of ‘I’ve got this’, one smile of ‘I’ll be fine’, then moving to the door, gripping the weapon with both hands now.

He stopped when the voice from the other side of the door breached the iron frame of his concentration. It spread through his mind, then his memories, and it jolted his heart, weakened his arms and knees, halted his breath.

“Kiddo, I’m in no mood for this shit. I smell like plane, probably jetlagged, my feet are killing me, they served a _bottled chocolate milk_ on the plane, and I am _way_ too low on coffee… So, lower your weapon and open the door, or so help me God I’ll shoot the hinges off of it.”

Carrie and Max stopped in their tracks, quizzical expressions on both their faces, but, mostly, it was the look on Quinn’s that made it clear they no longer needed to go into hiding. Carrie walked over to Quinn and touched his elbow, which was still firmly locked in place, both of his arms extended towards the door, connected where his hands met on his gun’s grip. From just that spot under her hand she could feel every muscle in his body rippling from steel solid to… well, _less_ steel solid. The air trapped inside of him rushed out through his mouth.

“Lily,” was the only thing he could utter in response to the question in her eyes.

He flipped the safety on his weapon back on and handed it to her. Before she had the chance to ask him, or even wonder for that matter, whether he was talking about the same sweet, overly perceptive, chocolate-obsessed old lady that he had spoken about on their way here, or how on Earth she ended up knocking on the door of a safe house on a secure floor inside an active (and secret) CIA station, or, and this was probably the biggest of all, how and why did just hearing her voice make the most mistrusting man she had ever met drop all his guards at once, Quinn was at the door, swinging it open wide.

It took one look at the woman standing in front of him to make five years of carefully laid out assumptions and theories fall into place and click. It took about another five seconds to realise that he was right all along and Lily _was_ , in fact, a _great_ loss to the intelligence world. It was something in the way she was holding her own weapon, ready to surge in case her warning through the door wasn’t convincing enough, the way she effortlessly holstered it back, the way she stood and moved, picking up her duffel bag _and_ her rifle bag, that made him realise what she _really_ was. And, even more incredibly, _who_ she really was.

There was nothing about her now that would blend with the image he’d carried in his thoughts through the last four years. Nothing but her eyes, and her smile, and her hands on his face, when she stepped closer and let out a sigh of relief at seeing him again, safe, sound and happy.

“My sweet beautiful boy… “

… And Quinn stepped into her embrace, throwing his arms around her, not to hold her but to be held himself, crossing just the two short feet separating them, but coming home nevertheless.

“And _I’m_ the batshit crazy _mothercracker_ ,” he laughed into the smoky leather of her jacket.

“It takes one to know one, love,” she said, patting his back.

Quinn had no argument there. Not anymore.

“Jesus, Lily…” he locked his arms around her even tighter now. “I’ve _missed_ you.”

She smiled, remembering their last conversation, just before he stepped out of her car and walked away into the night, “The most?” she inquired, fully knowing the answer.

“The most,” he confirmed, pulling away but not _moving_ away, his hands on her upper arms. “Lily Riley, I presume.” The name everyone _knew_ was Lily Desmond. But it _did_ ‘take one to know one’. And Quinn knew better now.

Special ops didn’t have yearbooks. Hell if it had records. All it had- as best he could describe it- was _urban legends_ : myths of people, whispers of names, never known for sure, never officially mentioned. It was also full of unwritten rules. If compartmentalization was the dark necessity of the intelligence world, in _his_ world it was a complete separation. You were assigned, you left, you planned, you executed. You came back, you slept, you wandered around, you got assigned again. Sometimes with familiar people, sometimes new, sometimes with the whole group. Now, the ‘whole group’ was also a somewhat ‘flexible’ term. In all his years he had never known exactly how many of them there were. Much like everything else, it varied. There were new people all the time, old people never to be heard of again. Becoming names. Not even real names in some cases. Just names. Sometimes stories. Never records. And _never_ women. Never in _his_ time, anyway. It was one of the ‘unwritten’ rules. They were female covert operatives, yes. In special ops? Well… _almost_ never.

Man’s world or not (or maybe _because_ it was a man’s world), there were obnoxious rumors and rude jokes. When you were forced to spend days, sometimes _many_ days, with nothing to do but wait, stories were bound to be told. There was one story about which he never stopped wondering. Of a woman operative supposedly killed in an explosion in Iraq over thirty years ago. He was a young operative when he heard it for the first time. It got his attention. For a while she was sort of a personal hero. And a bit of a crush, too. Which was odd, since he’d never met her and never would. But the days were long. Nights - longer. Imagination - your only refuge.

There was a star on the wall for _him_ . Probably never for _her_ . But she existed. And she was right here, standing in front of him. The myth. But really, _not_.

Lily gave him a wink and a small mysterious smile.

“Who knows,” she laced her arm under his elbow and walked in. Then she whispered right next to his ear, “I thought there were _never_ women in special ops.”

Quinn closed the door and put an arm around her shoulders. He leaned very close, “Did I _say_ anything about special ops?” it wasn’t a slip of a tongue, he knew. It was one of Lily’s ‘codes’. She talked like that. Gave you just enough to go on. Confirming, but maintaining her deniability. Came with the job. “There were _rumors_ of one, though. Merciless, ruthless and stunning.”

Lilly smirked and shook her head, “ _Were_ there now? Well, whatever gave you jarheads good jerk-off material.”

Choking on his own chuckle, he coughed hard. Lily. Blunt. _And_ merciless.

She grinned and slammed an iron palm in between his shoulder blades so hard that he cried out.  “That’s for disrespecting the memory of a fallen comrade. _And,_ to clear your throat,” and she continued through the hallway into the apartment.

Quinn followed her with his eyes. She never ceased to surprise him. And only few people could.

He crossed his arms on his chest and leaned against the wall of the small hallway connecting the living room to the door. He watched her drop her bags, walk straight to Carrie, call her by name, and, despite the shock on Carrie’s face, scoop her into her arms. Lily told her she was even more beautiful in person. And that she was _so_ _fucking proud of her_. He and Carrie had not yet spoken of what Carrie had done for him. But now _Lily_ did. In her own unceremonious and blunt way. To Carrie’s attempts to argue, she told her to ‘shut it’. She said that if Carrie ever had doubts about it, she should imagine what _he_ (and she pointed her thumb to behind her back in Quinn’s direction) would have done if the roles were reversed. Carrie looked at him, still in the circle of Lily’s arms. Their eyes met. All he could do was raise his eyebrows and shrug. There was no arguing with Lily. Definitely not on this one. He saw Carrie break into one of the brightest smiles he had ever seen. And, to his awe, he knew that the entire _talk_ he’d wanted to have with her and that she’d refused to get into had just happened.

While Lily moved on to her next victim, Carrie walked over to Quinn, wormed her arms around him and nuzzled her face in the curve of his neck. Neither of them said a thing. He stroked her hair and kissed the top of her head. The truth was, right or wrong, what she had done made him love her even more. And, when she finally raised her face to his, he told her just that. It was a fucked up way to mourn someone. But Lily was spot on. Because many years ago the roles _were_ reversed. And he _had_ done what Carrie did. He had done _worse_.

In the meantime Max watched, with embarrassment and horror, as this strange woman called him by _his_ name and took _him_ into her arms. What she said to _him_ made both Carrie and Quinn smile and want to snuggle Max as well. She said that in her entire life she had never met a person more worthy of being called a friend. And that she hoped the ‘two motherfuckers over there’ appreciate the treasure that he is. Max’s face turned redder than anyone had ever seen. Luckily, that was when Quinn pulled Lily away from him and told her to stop embarrassing the shit out of his family.

Max used the opportunity to hide behind Quinn’s back. He waited for the tall silver-haired menace to go back to Carrie, who was helping her unpack her bag, before finally managing to comment.

“Your mom’s kinda scary…” he mumbled, standing next to Quinn now, and then added, “But sweet. Kinda like you.”

Quinn watched as Lily turned her head and gave him another wink. She’d heard what Max called her. And he hadn’t been wrong. In many ways, she _was_.

“She is,” Quinn answered. And from the look on Lily’s face, he knew he’d just said all that she needed to hear.

He never knew his birth mother. The only woman who ever _was_ his mother was taken away from him when he was fourteen years old. He’d never thought about Lily that way. Until now. And it made him smile. This day had brought so many unexpected things into his life. He wasn’t going to argue with it anymore.

The number of boxes of food they unpacked was… well, about the amount of food Lily always had in her fridge.

“Emmm… ok, Black-Ops-Mary-Poppins, care to fill me in now?” he stood over her at first, but then, noticing something, leaped down and managed to yank Carrie’s hand out of the bag just in time. “Carrie, I don’t think _those_ go in the _fridge_.”

Carrie looked at what she was about to grab. Then at Quinn, “Who carries weapons with food???”

“I do,” they both turned to her. Then just Quinn (answering Carrie’s incredulous glance). “What? You think I’d walk around with more than one duffel bag?”

“You know…” she started. Then thought better of it, shook her head and headed into the kitchen. “Never mind. I don’t wanna know.”

Quinn figured that she really didn’t. He turned back to Lily, “So???”

“What?” she still even had the same intonation to her voice when she was irritated. “Lover boy messaged. Said you guys needed help. I jumped on the plane. Flew halfway across the globe. Went to the hospital. Got more details. Here I am. End of debriefing. Hey, do we unload our gear here? ‘Cause Franny’s here and all…”

“The other safe house,” he handed the key to Max. Max wasn’t happy to be going with her. _At all._ He moved his weight from one leg to another and snatched the key from Quinn’s hand. Quinn looked at Lily again. “I’m sorry… _lover boy_?”

Carrie’s voice from the kitchen answered _that one_ , “Saul, Quinn. It’s Saul,” Saul never told her about Martha, true. But she did know about his first love. Well, she _kind_ of knew. Saul was always very vague. Most of the stories she’d heard came from Mira, actually.

Quinn winced.

“Interesting…” he moved so he could see Carrie when he spoke back. “You know what _else_ is interesting? That I could have easily gone the rest of my life _without_ that image in my head.”

Lily rolled her eyes, “Fucking get over yourself already, will ya?” as she followed Max to the door, carrying her rifle bag and the rest of her ammo to 3B.

“Your _mom_ kinda talks like you, too,” Quinn turned around just in time to see Carrie next to him again, her hands sliding up his chest and around his neck.

“Seriously, Carrie… _Saul and Lily_?”

“Lemme put another image into your head… doesn’t that kinda make Saul your _father_?”

“Carrie! For _fuck’s sake_!!!”

She laughed and made him lean closer so she could reach his ear again. Then she put a new image into his head. It made all the others go away. And he kissed her long and deep to prove it.

“So…” Lily’s voice jolted them apart. “What’s on the agenda, kiddos?”

The officer in charge lifted his hand, unfolding one finger at a time, “Coffee, briefing, flight simulator, sleep.”

Lily winced, “Hate briefings.”

“Tough tomatoes. I’ll get the coffee.”

“Emmmm… Quinn?” Max raised a concerned hand.

Quinn shot him  warning look, “I’ll _clean the fucking kitchen_ ,” and when he saw Max grin, he realised what he’d just said. “Yeah, yeah… Shut up.”

  



	21. The Choice

There  _ are  _  indeed moments in our lives that last forever. As long as it takes for the impossibility to bridge the shores of reality.

He looks ahead. He almost smiles. It’s almost like the scope of a rifle.  _ Almost _ .

There’s something to be said about looking at the world through the scope of your rifle. What was it? Oh, yes. It’s the most honest and untinted way to look at things. It’s the most intimate moment, right before taking someone else’s life. In that fraction of a second, right before your finger comes to squeeze the trigger, what you see most clearly is yourself. All of yourself. Raw and taken out of the context of your life. 

He used to have theories. Long nights and days with nothing to do but wait: for your target to make the move, for your plan to become viable, for the green light to go ahead and carry out the mission. Long flights, longs stays in between, long walks. 

There are two things that his mind always comes back to. The choices. And the context. They are somewhat connected in the end. 

He’s here because of both. And so is Carrie. 

The one about the choices he’s had figured out for years now. It’s the simplest one. 

  1. Choosing what to believe is the hardest. It’ll end up tinting every following choice you make. Bad things are easier to believe than the good ones. But the good ones are the trickiest. You can’t just see what you want to see. Or you end up… well, here.
  2. Never fool yourself into thinking you’re making a choice where there really is none. Sometimes life just gives you a finger. You can’t own up to something that was never up to  you. You shouldn’t have to. It ends up eating away at you. 
  3. When you do make a choice that’s your own, make sure you have the means, the strength and the integrity to live with the consequences. You have to be able to own up to everything you say or do. Regret is a fucked-up thing. And it’ll end up fucking with your head and shadowing a whole lot of other choices.



His love for Carrie ends up being a mix of all three - what he believes about her; knowing, that beyond a certain point it wasn’t really up to him; and making choices that seem to lead nowhere, but are the only ones he can live with, because they all come from a place of doing the only thing he can own up to.

The context always gave him more trouble. Mostly, because when he used to think about it, what he’d wonder about wasn’t how to put things into context, how to see them in the right perspective, but rather the opposite. 

Another funny fact about the scope of a rifle is that it removes the context. What you see is what is in front of you. Context falls away to beyond the tunnel of your vision.

Context is important. It can mean the difference between making the best choice and the worst one under the same circumstances. He is not really sure if there  _ is _ such a thing as  _ too much context _ , but that’s what his theory was all about.

  1. Too much context can get you confused and lose sight of what it’s all about.
  2. Context can be false. Too much false context is what gets you to making fucked-up choices.
  3. Too much context replaces the subject. And that’s when you end up losing it all.



Bottom line is - sometimes you need the context removed. There are four things he managed to count so far that can do just that: scope of a rifle, time, loss and staring into the barrel of a weapon that’s about to take your life.

 

**Time**

In the end, that’s what he wanted. Time away. 

He doesn’t even remember how long ago it started, when was the first time that phrase shoveled itself into his brain.  _ Let me go _ . It’s there when he wakes up, it’s there when he makes coffee, it’s there when he eats, it’s there all the time. It’s been there for so long he feels like it’s become his best friend. Or his personal shadow. It’s hard to say at this point. 

_ Let me go _ .

It’s not really about Carrie. It’s about everything. It’s about needing time. Time to get enough distance to see things for what they are. Time away from the overcomplicated context. 

But mostly it’s about the need to see the choices as chances. To figure out which were lost. Or not. It’s somewhat complicated. And it’s the constant presence of context that makes it so.

Time makes things smaller. And, because the context is in essence nothing more than a bunch of things that frame the subject, with time it becomes invisible. Also, if the subject was big and important enough, in the end it’s supposed to be the only thing that remains. Raw and naked, stripped of all perspective. It just is. You can look at it and see if you still like it.  Or want it.

What if he had enough time? What would he do? 

He would go away. He would survive this and go away. Maybe he would have people in his life who cared enough to help him go away. Maybe there  he would meet new people, who would become a part of his new life. He doesn’t want them to help him, not really. Maybe just guide him. As he finds his own way.

There is a woman in the crowd. It’s a fleeting image as he races past her. She’s older. She’s taking a video with her phone. The still shot of her face is engraved in his thoughts. She’s tall, slender. Her silver hair is pulled back, her face is open. He’s not sure what color her eyes are, but he can imagine them being blue. Maybe grey. Or green. Yes, definitely green. Often he looks at people and tries to guess what their names are. She looks like a Lily. She will be Lily. Why Lily, though? Right, Lily Riley. The old myth of the only woman in special ops. She died in an explosion in Iraq almost thirty years ago. But what if she didn’t? What if she survived? Faked her own death maybe? What if he meets her, when he goes away. She wouldn’t tell him who she is. But he thinks a part of him would always know - they are kindred spirits. 

His heart races. Or does it? The time has stopped. It’s all in that moment, the one that lasts forever. The one where you have enough time to rip the context out of your life and see it as clear as ever. 

People. New people. With  new names. Like Lily. Lauren, maybe. Matt. Some old people, too. People he wishes he had more time to thank for what they’ve been for him. Like Max. Julia. Strangers who become friends. No context. Just friends. Things would be simple without context. Simple is what he always wanted. And never got. 

_ Let me go. I need time. I need for the things to be simple again. I need to walk my own path for a while. I need to see where it takes me. So I can look back and see you for who you are. So much has happened. Too much context, too much haze. Was it ever simple? Could it ever lead to simple? I don’t know. All I wanted was to find out.  _

_ I’ve lost myself. To you. To the context of your life. To my sense of obligation and duty. I’ve lost myself. I need it back. I don’t care if I have to limp for the rest of my life, as long as I limp along my own path. I don’t care if I can only use one hand, as long as I carry my own burdens. I don’t mind staring the choices in the face. As long as they are my own. And I don’t remember making my own choices in such a long time.  _

_ Please, just let me go.  _

_ I’ll walk away. It’ll take time.  _

_ One day, years from now maybe, I might come back. But I need to come back because it’s my choice. Not because you’ve asked me to. Not because you need me.  _

_ I want to meet people. Just people. Get to know someone. See if I can still connect to someone who’s not part of the mission, not part of a conspiracy. I want to take a run through the woods in the morning. In no particular direction. Not chasing a target, not running towards you, to save you. Just run. _

_ I used to like to read. I want to read before I go to sleep. I don’t mind going to sleep alone. I want to doze off trying to figure out the plot of the book I am reading. Not an extraction plan. I want to wake up because I’ve slept enough. Not because it’s time to move. I want to stretch and stay still for a while. Alone. But not lonely. _

If he had enough time, he would do all that. And in the end… He would think back. Maybe about her. Maybe  not. Maybe he would find out that this, in fact,  _ was _ what he’d always wanted. 

Maybe he’d be called back to help with an operation. The one he’d believe in, for a change. Maybe their paths would cross again. And maybe it would be different. 

For him, it would be time making the difference. For her - loss. 

  
  


**Loss**

Tomorrow she will wake up to the world tinted by loss. Whatever she feels, whatever she used to feel - it doesn’t matter. The loss will be real. 

She will make choices colored by loss and grief. It’s her way of dealing. Always has been. 

She will become the shadow of her own guilt. And there is nothing he can do about it. He wishes he had time to tell her. She was going to lose him anyway. Because he needed time. His time would become her loss. 

He would go away for himself. He would need for her to stay behind. 

The loss will consume her. Sooner or later it will take over her life. It will become her context for a while. 

But then she will see: what it does, the loss, is actually removing the context. She will see the things that mattered, and the things that mattered less, much less. She will have regrets. For a while those regrets would seem like lost chances. Then, they would seem like love. Then, they would go away. Or not. 

He wishes he could be here. Because she will do things that might destroy her. He wishes he could be there in time to yank her out of danger. But he won’t. Because the time that he wanted is about to run out. And all that’s left is this moment. Where he can see all that was and all that could be.

Maybe the loss would change her. 

When it removes all the context they’ve been sucked into… what will she see? What will she feel? Realise?

Maybe if he had time and she had loss, years from now they would meet and so many things wouldn’t matter. Or maybe not.

But if they did… 

He would finish the operation. After he gets her and Franny to safety. He would fake their deaths. Fly the plane just high enough for them to bail out. Then crash it. Explode it, maybe. He would take them to safety then. Go back. Finish the mission. Go home. 

Home is the house on the lake.

But not yet. 

The loss might change her. But maybe it already has. Maybe she’s already lost him. Maybe she never really had him. Not the way he wanted her to have him. Not the way she wanted to be able to. He will never know.

Maybe he would come back after having enough time away. Maybe he would find her softer around the edges. Because maybe her loss will show her what could have been. Maybe his time would show him it’s not lost. Or maybe not.

But then there is the last thing. Other than time and loss. There is the inevitability of staring into the barrel of a weapon that’s about to fire a bullet that will take your life. 

That bullet is what gives you all the time in the world. Right before it takes it away.

 

**Truth**

When the first bullet hits him he thinks…  _ Is this the one _ ? And it’s not just because he wonders if it’s the one bullet that ends it all. It’s also because right before it does, the windshield is too cracked to see anything anymore. 

But the first bullet is the one that makes the two remaining things that remove the context possible.

The crack in the windshield is like a scope of a rifle. His vision is a tunnel now. It’s that moment. He sees himself. All he ever was, all he ever wanted, all he would have done if he had time. And it’s as clear as day. 

He steps on the gas harder. The mission at hand. It still matters. It’s always mattered.

Through that crack-scope-of-a-rifle he can see the last thing - the barrel. He knows.

And everything finally loses context at once.

His life. It’s not here. It’s never been. 

It doesn’t end here. 

Pictures make a moment in time. A child. Growing as he flips through them. Growing up without him. 

This is what he would do if he had time. If he managed to break free. 

He would fix his  _ own  _ loss. Pick up the shards of his  _ own  _ dream. 

He’s past the moment of what could have been. He knows.

Because bullets are fast. You don’t really have much time after that barrel fires. 

Finish the mission. Drive past them. 

To safety. Their safety. Not his. 

He’s safe already.

He walks onto the deck. The lake is a liquid silver. The sky is so blue and so high. And the water is so clear, that he can see the sky both above and below. It’s everywhere. Just the sky.

Laughter. He sees the boy in the water. His boy. He takes off his clothes, strips down to his boxers and goes in. 

The missions are over. 

The boy leaps into his arms and it all becomes still. 

Peaceful. 

Just the sky. The serenity. 

No choices. No context. No one to save. Nowhere to run. 

The loss and the time mend together and become infinite. Then they both stop.

Quiet. Still. 

He closes his eyes. His head falls back. He can’t see the sky. But he can feel it. All around him. Above and below. 

Finally.

He’s found it.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ending has been stuck in my head for a long time now. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> The Choices started five years after this moment.
> 
> You can see it the way you want.
> 
> Maybe he survived. Maybe he did have time. 
> 
> If he did... Would he end up back here? 
> 
> Was this all he was? All he could be? All he wanted? Needed? 
> 
> Maybe it was all a 'maybe'. The musings of one moment that lasts forever. Wonderings. 
> 
> It's up to you.
> 
> When you make up your mind, make sure you can live with it. 
> 
> Thank you.


End file.
